The Closest Thing To Crazy
by fabulous sun
Summary: When infamous "Demon Lord" Ghirahim takes his trip to the remote Faron Woods for an interview with the traumatized writer Link, he doesn't expect much trouble - but Link is all but willing to permit an intruder. Ghirahim has to think of something, fast...
1. Prologue

**The Closest Thing To Crazy**

It's hard to be a Diamond in a Rhinestone World

_A/N: I will likely stick to the use of song titles (with matching context), but there won't be massive quotes, no worries. As for the title, 'The Closest Thing To Crazy' is a song by the wonderful Katie Melua from her album 'Call Off The Search'. You might also be interested in having a look at the fanart 'Fabulous tea-time' by Mr-teapot on deviantArt, for obvious reasons._

_The reason for this use of foreign material is my experience that people tend to associate more with a story if they have a visual or audible impulse – I'd love to hear about other thoughts on that matter._

_This is an Alternative Universe, however, it is still Hyrule._

_Enjoy!_

_I don't step, I strut_

_Turn that music BLAST up UP UP UP_

_It's so hard to be a diamond in a rhinestone world._

(Blood on the Dance Floor, 'It's hard to be a Diamond in a Rhinestone World')

A week.

For just one interview.

A whole fucking week.

The words kept repeating, doing odd somersaults in his brain while his eyes searched the road. The landscape was most insulting, trees and bushes and stones mixed up – no sign of the accurate order of a city park. The surface of the road was rocky and looked like coal tar had not yet been invented when it was build. It probably no longer deserved the title 'road'. 'Dirt track' sounded nice. And way too close to the truth.

A week.

Ghirahim slammed his heel into the brakes, and the car screeched satisfyingly pained before stopping. It wasn't like anyone would mind him blocking the path, though Ghirahim would have been happy for that. Just the kind of stress relief he would have needed to gleefully concentrate on his mission.

His legs were aching from the long hours of stillness that he had spend driving in a rental car, a yellow piece of junk that deserved every ounce of hate that Ghirahim directed at it. It was dusty, smelled of cheap antiseptic, contained only bloody gospel CDs, and most of all, it had a _gear shift_!

But it was supposedly better than walking. Ghirahim reset his seat to stretch his white, stovepipe-pants-clad legs by propping them up on the dashboard. It was about time he did his usual half-hour of yoga to keep his muscles able to move in the smooth, taunting way that always attracted so much jealousy, but there was no way he was getting out of the car. The ground was muddy, and he would end up ruining his favorite pair of boots – Ghirahim had made such an effort of looking dashing, he refused to ditch that. Time was money. He would just have to make do with what little space he had in the crammed coupé. After all, the navigation system claimed that it would only be half an hour before he finally reached his destination.

Ghirahim groaned as he flexed the muscles and began to pull up his right leg up to his chest. The lycra of his leggings allowed gymnastics, which Ghirahim greatly appreciated, since he seldom had time or opportunity to change clothes in his busy schedule.

A week. Seriously.

Ghirahim, rather _Lord Ghirahim_, wasn't called the Demon Lord for nothing. Of course, one could also call him 'Ghira' or worse, 'Debbie', if it was planned to change Ghirahim's attitude from bland indifference to hostility. And he had an excellent memory for those who were foolish enough to crack that joke.

Ghirahim smiled sardonically to himself while he removed the safety belt and stretched his leg even farther. One of the many benefits of his job was the fact that he simply owned power over people. People who were desperate for his opinion because they were feeling doubtful about their own, because they lacked charisma and strength and sought his instead. It felt absolutely wonderful, the simplicity with which Ghirahim could lift them up or smash them down.

'Simply Fab' was his column on 'Skyward Serenade', the most popular newspaper in Hyrule – though certainly not the most professional. Skyward Serenade was an exquisite mix of politics, gossip, hypocrisy and fashion. Oh, and sex, but that went without saying. Ghirahim casually examined his silvery lipstick before pulling down his leg again and twisting the limbs into the lotus position while combing his soft white hair. A diamond gleamed on the lobe of his right ear.

A week.

Ghirahim had proven to be a very effective part of the team. His unique styling attracted attention wherever he went, and to his immense satisfaction, nobody had been able to copy it without looking flat out ridiculous. His opinion on events, dresses and people counted a great deal, and whoever pissed him off (intentionally or not) would receive a whole paragraph full of fabulous words that ripped him to shreds. Readers loved columnists without mercy, and Ghirahim was, for all intents and purposes, a Demon Lord par excellence.

He rolled his shoulders before separating his legs and pulling his left leg behind his back, until the back of his calf rested against his shoulder blade. Ghirahim was used to being short on time, so fixing his hair while his hip joint gave a vicious cracking sound was perfectly normal. He pushed his foot even higher and finally hooked his right arm around the instep.

When he'd announced that animal prints were no longer stylish last week, it had been a delightful little scandal again… He couldn't wait to twist that knife even deeper. His laptop rested in the rhinestone-encrusted bag on the passenger seat, ready for new, juicy massacres in the all too small heads of his readers, prepared for whatever direction Ghirahim would take this time…

But one week.

It frequently happened that Ghirahim wrote an article about a celebrity or did an interview, occasionally both at a time. That required an hour at maximum – no one kept the Demon Lord waiting, and he himself decided how close he would stick to the truth that his naïve respondent revealed. And whether this truth was _simply fab_ or not.

That was why he had been stunned to hear that Simply Fab was actually taking a break for whole seven days to give Ghirahim – unparalleled, irreplaceable, luscious, visionary and most of all _simply fab_ _Demon Lord Ghirahim_ – room for one interview.

A week. Seven days. 168 hours. 10080 minutes. It was impossible.

Ghirahim could not remember the last time he'd had a free weekend. Simply Fab was a daily column, and he had plenty of other work to do, let alone keeping in touch with informants and making sure that he didn't look like he was that busy. A beauty like his was to be treated like a lady, with care, money and Fango treatments.

If he hadn't been absolutely sure that this mud worked wonders on his fantastic skin, he would finally declare that it was not fab to bathe in that stuff. Eww.

Ghirahim was not used to free days either, for the same reasons. He was not used to being in this huge dead spot, with even his brand new mobile being unable to get reception. He was not used to being away from civilization in this shitty prairie.

And he was NOT used to being unable to have hot tea when HE desired it, let alone from his FAVORITE cup!

Ghirahim frowned and disentangled his leg. The muscles still hummed angrily from the stretching, but the journalist hardly noticed. The situation made him, as he dubbed it, negatively giggly. There was no way Skyward Serenade would be fine without him, even for only a week. On the other hand, they would be horribly disappointed to see that there was no man in this world that Ghirahim could not deal with.

Since he was on his way to no other than Link.

Yeah, just Link. Ghirahim figured it was a rather lame nom de plume for a writer, so the birth name had to be even worse.

Three years ago, Link had been the darling of the media, _such_ an endearing young man with great promise. Even though nobody could really tell where the author had popped up, his books had bestseller stamped all over them before they had even gone into print. The saga about the silent hero who saved his princess and the world in some kind of utility union had practically won every award worth mentioning – if you were into that sort of thing. Ghirahim hadn't bothered to read Link's books, but had dealt with them nonetheless. Back in that time, they had been a very popular accessory for everybody, it had been essential to know the outlines of the plot in order to successfully converse. Link had been praised for his highly sensitive and yet suspense-packed style and producers all over Hyrule had all but crusaded against each other to adapt the material for film.

That had been the case three years ago. Before Link's fiancée had been shot in an armed raid on a jewelry store. Probably while picking up the engagement rings: Ghirahim thought it was rather well-deserved if people wasted that much time before finally getting married, so that they could follow the protocol and get into a dirty divorce ASAP.

Link had dropped off the face of the earth after that. He hadn't been a very public person to begin with, and after the funeral, he had shut himself off completely. He had no family, and his friends – a highly problematic term that had been invented for idealists only – tried in vain to contact him. It was no secret that Link lived in a charming farmhouse in the Faron Woods that he had renovated with his girlfriend, probably with the intention of carrying her over the threshold and having loads of adorable Dinky Linky's with her. While the latter did not really happen, Link barricaded himself there until the public had finally stopped to besiege him.

However, the interest never actually died down like it would have with any other celebrity. Link had never published the last book of his famous trilogy, and people couldn't seem to forget about him. Kind of like a really good lover; Ghirahim could not relate that obstinate clutching to anything else.

Link was a mysterious person. Of course, he could not avoid the rest of the world, even in this godforsaken backwater, and nowadays, it was impossible to prevent all sorts of communication.

Link no longer spoke to anyone. Bushed.

Perhaps he did tell the dairyman that he was terribly upset to have found a dead fly in the last bottle of milk, but if he did, no one mentioned it. The villagers of the nearby hicktown ('nearby' still meaning that the distance was a binary number of kilometers) had obviously declared themselves Link's savage guardians over the years, acting repellent to anyone who got there without the necessary letter of recommendation from the local cow-fucking stable-lad.

A whole week. Skyward Serenade thought that the infamous Demon Lord needed that much time to deal with a bushwhacker who liked to drown in self-pity and act as if there weren't plenty of other fish in the sea. Fish that would hook up with his fishing hook before he knew it.

Heads would roll once Ghirahim returned to the editorial office.

He just hoped Link hadn't been too self-indulgent over the past three years. He had been handsome back then, and frankly, Ghirahim wouldn't mind getting tangled up with a guy who kept his mouth shut most of the time. Flirting was part of his work, but he hardly had time for workouts, and he hated the idea of anyone thinking some guy had power over him because Ghirahim claimed him for a longer period.

Well, what happened in Faron, stayed in Faron. After all, he had plenty of time.

Ghirahim briefly checked his makeup and finished stretching, then he rearranged the car and started the engine. The road twisted on, and finally, the trees were losing ground. Ahead lay the farmhouse: a lovely stone building where ivy clawed the front colored in warm brown, white-framed dormer windows reflected the midday sun. Ghirahim decided that the gingerbread trim on the roof was _not fab_, instead quite ridiculous, but he had to admit that the house looked nice. Though he himself preferred living inside buildings that didn't scream SOB STUFF.

He stopped the car and gingerly got out, watching the grassy ground dubiously. It didn't seem like tires got here often. The only vehicle around seemed to be a horse.

Ghirahim did not detect this from the imprint of hooves, but from the horse manure lying blithely in his field of vision.

So _not fab_.

He was careful to watch his way as he went up to the front door made from dark pine wood. There was no bell at all, so he simply knocked while looking around.

Even though this place was so remote it might as well have been on the moon, it was clear that someone tended to it. Ghirahim suspected that there was a garden behind the house (cheesy farm houses always had gardens, and sunflowers as well), and the red-coated shed on his right was open, a metal hand barrow stood waiting next to it. The windows and the porch were clean and it faintly smelled of freshly cut grass. It was a sweet scent that Ghirahim was unused to – rural idyll. He'd get tired of that before the week was over.

In fact, this was pissing him off. Where the hell was this Link? It wasn't like there was anywhere exciting to go in this boring wood!

"Link?" he called with a hint of amusement. Was Tarzan getting shy out here? He tried the door and found it locked. Too bad.

Ghirahim stepped back and looked around. Beside the shed that he had no desire setting a foot into, there was the stable and perhaps the back door of this house. Ghirahim was pretty sure that entering the stable would soil his boots, so he saved that option for the emergency and walked around the corner.

"Link?"

Ghirahim saw the flash of green right the moment he wondered whether he should get the most current photo of the author that he had been able to get his hands on. In case it wasn't easy to identify him. That thought stopped abruptly.

Because there was a pitchfork pointing at him. A dirty, rusty, seriously sharp pitchfork, ten centimeters in his comfort-zone.

Well, _fuck._


	2. Day one: I'm Your Villain

I'm your Villain

_Thank you so much for your feedback! I agree that Ghirahim might seem less fabulous in AU because he can't undress with a shrug and throw diamond daggers around – I'll still try to make up for that. It's even lovelier if people read it although they don't like AU that much._

/

_If I could laugh I'd love you_

_If I could smile at anything you said_

_We could be laughing lovers:_

_I think you'd prefer to be miserable instead…_

(Franz Ferdinand, 'I'm your Villain')

/

It was not like Ghirahim had never been threatened before.

People, who knew about his tendency to write something nasty, not only because it pleased his readers, but because it pleased _him_, tried that once in a while. Very foolish indeed, because they were convinced that he needed their cooperation to finish an article. In the era of free media, he could make up whatever he liked and get away with it.

However, faking an interview with Link was not happening – he was about the only case where that would not have been credible. Reporters had tried to do this for years now, and the public was tired of cheap fantasy.

Being threatened physically with a weapon (sort of) was refreshingly new to Ghirahim. Still, he would have preferred to be confronted with something more… impressive. Like an axe, or a rapier. At least one of those old-fashioned shotguns. Not a pitchfork that was likely used to clean out the stable.

Ghirahim resisted the urge to back off. He was fairly sure that the pitchfork wasn't going to get rammed into his chest anytime soon, but he wasn't dying to get that dirt onto his white bodysuit. It was customized for him only. Finally, he tore his eyes off the tool and smiled.

At least, he had found Jungle Boy. There was no doubt that the man holding the pitchfork was Link.

Ghirahim had last seen him in person wearing a tux at a party where he'd looked like a teenager that had accidentally stumbled in from his Prom and now searched for the restrooms so he could hide. He had always seemed annoyingly young, self-conscious and in desperate need for someone who either straightened his tie or patted his head.

Three years from that, Ghirahim faced a man in simple, worn gear whose expression gave away nothing. The sandy blonde hair was untidy and so horribly cut it made Ghirahim shudder. And yet, there was no mistaking that the blue eyes, cold and hard and smooth as colored glass, belonged to an adult.

He had built up nicely, too. His shoulders were no longer slumped as if to protect himself from anyone coming too close, and his calloused hands were tightly gripping the handle of the pitchfork. Ghirahim would have preferred him to hold onto something else – a flower bouquet, maybe, or even better, a cup of tea. He would have liked some.

Oh, this hair! It wasn't simply _not fab_, it was… horrendous. Awful. Despicable! Link probably never bothered to visit a coiffeur and instead cut his hair himself. Or he laid his head under a lawnmower to achieve this fascinating lack of style. Except he certainly did not _have_ a lawnmower, he either used a sickle or let his disgusting horse do the work. Those strands might as well have been chewed off.

Ghirahim cleared his throat. Link had been visited by countless reporters from all over Hyrule – none like the Demon Lord, of course, but he probably had sufficient experience with people stepping onto his property and introducing themselves as his soulmates. So it was absolutely vital to push all the right buttons in the first moment.

Of course, Ghirahim had already prepared his speech. Well-placed words, assisted by his stunning appearance, would lower that offensive pitchfork soon enough. Ghirahim tried not to stare at Link's hair and offered him a charming smile. Damn, that hair! Never mind. He had to use his best silky voice for this.

_Lovely Link, you have utterly no idea how overjoyed I am to tell you that…_

"Your hair needs cutting."

Ghirahim almost looked around to search for the source of this remark. Because there was frankly no way that he had just blurted that out.

He'd never. He was a professional. Professionals never spoke their mind during work, so these words could not have slipped from his mouth.

Apparently they had, for Link's eyes became even cooler. Now that Ghirahim gave it a thought, the hermit's unmoving posture might have been a result of bewilderment for Ghirahim's unique makeup and gray powder rather than an invitation to explain himself.

Ghirahim was quick to react. So he had made a fauxpas, but it was not like Link would tell anyone. A benefit of that vow of silence – that thing was becoming more and more convenient by minute.

"Just joking."

Ghirahim smiled sweetly, his white teeth flashed between his lips. It was an edged smile, as menacing as Link's pitchfork. Unfortunately, that guy seemed to be wearing a chainmail under his clothes, easily deflecting that smile. He thrust his tool forward, and this time, Ghirahim had to lean back his torso to evade being touched by the dirty teeth; he had excellent control of his body, keeping his balance without swaying and conserving his smile nonetheless. Though Link's stare did not drop to watch the supple work of Ghirahim's muscles beneath the white lycra, and that was usually the least the Demon Lord expected.

This was getting personal. Ghirahim did _not _approve of people who denied his exquisite physique the admiration it deserved. They failed to see that this was fab.

"Would you mind sparing a few minutes for me? I'd like to-"

The pitchfork targeted his chest again. For a moment, Ghirahim forgot about his revulsion and knocked the iron head away, glaring at Link. "- _introduce myself_, so we can have-" Link grimly narrowed his eyes, silently negating already. "-an amiable little chat." Ghirahim wasn't intimidated by the behavior of his host. What was the worst that could happen? Link surely would not call the police, or the kind of local militia, unless he used smoke signals. And Ghirahim would eat his hat if this guy even knew what a cell phone was (On the second thought, he'd rather not. Whoever invented these figures of speech obviously had a hard-on for indigestions).

Link regarded him coolly, without a spark of recognition. He had to be the only erect being on two legs in all Hyrule that never read SkySe and was therefore unfamiliar with the striking Ghirahim and his acidic way of placing words. Link's ignorance was bliss and curse at a time.

Ghirahim tapped his hand briskly against his firm thigh and brushed back his dusty-white hair.

"Charmed to meet you, Link… My name is Ghirahim. Mind the H."

Link didn't seem to mind it. He completely lacked any sort of reaction; his eyes possessed the sharpness of a deactivated robot, seeing, but not responding because the _key stimulus_, as Ghirahim referred it, was missing.

It pissed him off. Even more than this filthy place, the unadulterated kitsch and the fact that he had touched this pitchfork and probably rubbed off some of the, uh, coating.

The whole of Link made him sick with anger.

"You see, I was wondering about you book, the third one that never came. What was it called again?" Ghirahim didn't waste his time on waiting for Link to reply, he took his blackberry from his white leather belt (he could not have pockets on his jeans, and truth to be told, there was nothing quite like an unshaped bulge if you wanted to ruin a nice pair of legs). His assistant had compiled a set of notes about Link's work and his interviews, so he was prepared for talking about something that he had not concerned himself with before. The perks of being a boss. And of not caring whether his underlings liked him.

"Ah, yes, _Sky Child_, that's what you said about the title."

If Link wasn't moving anywhere – and apparently, he was just waiting for Ghirahim to vanish, foolish as that would be – then they were taking this outside like real men. And yes, Ghirahim was a real man. Since when could anyone dress like him and look captivating if he didn't have it in him?

He fought back the tingling of anger from his voice, once more giving Link his full attention.

"I was always wondering how you'd get there, since a child requires pregnancy, and frankly, it never looked to be like your protagonist and his non-emancipated princess were getting anywhere close to that. I mean, it's crucial to actually fuck the chick, if you know what I mean, it doesn't work any other way. Though if a kiss is enough to knock her up, your hero should seriously consider a paternity test, or he'll be stuck with a demon brat for…"

Ghirahim's tone carried nothing but good-natured thoughtlessness. His lips curled into an even happier smile when the spark of wrath finally ignited behind Link's glassy eyes, sending up a pleasant shiver down Ghirahim's spine. He had overpowered Link's countenance, discovering the soft spot and exploiting it. There was nothing he loved quite as much as that. People were vulnerable as long as they allowed themselves strong emotions, and Ghirahim had known that this primitive provocation would be enough.

Because authors were always touchy about their characters, but you didn't have to be a genius to see that the subject of copulation did not actually aim at a fictitious princess, rather a very real woman…

Link stared at him, his full and strangely masculine mouth pressed together so tightly that it became a thin, colorless line. His hands gripped the farm tool until his knuckles turned into a blotchy short of white. Ghirahim could practically feel the tension of every muscle in that body.

_Go ahead, try plunging that toy into my throat – you won't. You'll feel nice and sorry and absolutely terrible afterwards._ He smiled lazily. _And then we'll talk._

The intensity of Link's still contained wrath would make anyone step back. It was not a question of bravado, it was reason.

Reason never filled Ghirahim's jaded heart with this rare excitement. He licked his lips, deciding that he needed a last straw to make that pent-up anger burst. Interview forgotten, he only cared about that distinctive SNAP.

"I'm sure you know how to bang a girl? It's all about that vertical smile under her skirts and nothin' 'bout slaying spiders, I can assure you. Though I _did_ wonder how a book could sell this good without any sex. Let me guess… Your darling heroes weren't married?"

Link lifted the pitchfork in a choppy motion, his breaths seemed to heave his broad shoulders like a steam-engine on full power. Ghirahim tensed, determined to jump back as soon as the pitchfork came down on him, and not a second earlier.

Link averted his eyes and rammed the tool into the soft, dark earth, burying the entire head. He jerkily turned away and walked towards the stable, his offensive sandy hair rocking gently, triumphantly with each step.

Ghirahim blinked uncomprehendingly at the pitchfork. The grass where Link had stood was starting to straighten again, erasing his presence. For the first time in a while, Ghirahim was baffled. Perplexed. Stunned. His mind was blank.

This guy, this primate, had refused him the satisfaction to see him lose his temper, to see him fume and rampage, to hear his petty screeching and witness pathetic expressions of rage.

When someone had pissed on the grave of his fiancée, he had simply _walked away_.

Ghirahim could not dwell on the fact that nobody had ever acted like this around him – even if people felt indifferent about something, they worked themselves into fits since they could not bear to seem coldhearted. He had let the little farmer get away, an idiotic mistake to begin with, and betrayed that he had been affected. Ghirahim couldn't believe that he had been such an amateur. With an aggravated flick of his hair, he marched towards the stable.

The building was small and sturdy, dust danced in the rays of sun that fell through the crown glass of the windows. The air smelled sweetly of hay, and since the horse was probably kept outside during this time of the year, there was only the oily scent of leather.

More kitsch. Mercy! Ghirahim could already feel the itching in his nose that threatened to create an unesthetic sneeze. He hated hay, and this smell would stick to him until the next hot bath.

Link was not here, but a door, large enough for a horse, connected the area around the house to a paddock. Admittedly, Ghirahim was not fond of animals at all… The thought of running into the filthy brute that left loads of shit lying around was disgustingly unfabulous. He could stand the hermit with his tools, but it would take more to confront Link with his organic tractor around.

Personally, Ghirahim blamed his parents for this. Though that wasn't helping right now.

"Don't be a prima donna, Link… It's what my readers want to know. As the author, that should be your concern, right?", he called after Link, although he had not spotted the man yet.

The Demon Lord would have bet money that there was a tightly locked chastity belt beneath Link's clothes, for all the fuss he made because of that small implication about sex. Did he even know that his haystack looked like the living dream of a chick-lit-author? Ghirahim almost expected a ruffled groom to crawl out of that thing any minute now.

There was no helping it. Unless Link had hidden in that haystack (which Ghirahim was not touching, the stems would forever stick to his clothes) or under some kind of trapdoor, he had probably gone outside. The paddock.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Rupee. Whatever.

Ghirahim waded into the lush grass, banning all thoughts of dirt, insects and… complementary colors.

"Enough playing around, we'll settle this like-" _Real men?_ Hardly! "-grownups."

He spotted the hideous horse standing peacefully next to the stable, nibbling on some yellow flower that might have been a hawkbit. Ghirahim didn't care for botanic, he just eyed the brown beast warily and took another step. Link was nowhere to be seen.

"Come on, tomboy. You'll find conversing with me less agonizing than you think…" It took some effort to drop his voice into that husky tone that made men shift in their seats. Ghirahim didn't feel like flirting; he felt like seeing Link come undone, in both ways possible and in a very strict order. That child insisted on playing around with the Demon Lord.

And he was _so_ ruining his boots.

"Link, I'll be seriously cheerless if you don't-"

Suddenly, the horse gave a snort and pranced. Ghirahim whirled around, subtle fears grasping him. He never liked animals, animals never liked him, he had always hated big animals and big animals had always…

Ghirahim gasped, anger welling up when Link expertly nudged his knees against the flanks of the horse. He must have used the oldest of tricks, climbing up the roof of the stable, waiting for Ghirahim to pass and then jumping onto his getaway vehicle. It was an obvious question why Ghirahim had not seen him up there, and the answer was just as embarrassing. He'd been watching out for the horse and that stupid flower, both very high on the not-fab-list.

Link turned the horse without using a harness or holding onto the mane. He kicked the beast slightly, urging it to break into a gallop.

And there was only one direction open if he wasn't going to crash his face into the lintel of the stable door like the idiot he was.

Ghirahim experienced a sudden burst of primal fear, standing in the way of a creature that likely weighed more than ten times as much as him and build up an impressive speed within the small distance. Without thinking at all, he threw himself sideways into the grass to avoid being stamped to the ground.

He felt the sharp draft of air, smelled the animalistic scent that carried an odd note of coconut as the horse galloped past him. The soft grass tingled his skin as adrenaline rushed through his system. The archaic mechanism in his head told him '_health damage prevented_' and had the nerve to release endorphins of relief.

Ghirahim was quick at his feet, but not quick enough. He barely saw how Link ducked his head to the neck of the horse when it jumped over the fence and disappeared into the woods, the dull beating of hooves soon fading.

Ghirahim stood on the paddock, staring after Link, then raising his hands. Brown and green stained the front of his body, both his clothing and skin, and a small bruise was forming where he had caught himself and pressed a small, pointy stone into his palm.

A strand of his accurately styled hair slowly slipped from its position, gliding across Ghirahim's cheek like a consoling caress.

It was eerily quiet.

/

It took long minutes until the shaking stopped. Ghirahim could not, would not, debase himself by throwing a fit of rage, yet the temptation was strong. And even worse because there was no one he could take his anger out on.

Eventually, the heavy buzzing of blood in his ears subsided, his calm returned. There was a good side to this, really – he hadn't known that his control over his temper had weakened, it was a lucky thing that he had only been out here in Neverland with Peter Pan and his fucking fairy horse.

Ghirahim growled throatily and ditched the positive-thinking. He should have never taken that training course, but if it was a trend, what could he do.

Link would regret his infantile prank soon enough. Until then, Ghirahim could at least unhurriedly take photos of the estate. He briefly considered waiting for Link, however, he found it unbearable to meet him in these stained clothes, and Ghirahim still had to drive over to the village in order to move into the room he had rented. Besides, there was no way of telling when He-Man would return. Link looked like the type of self-made-barbarian who stayed in the wilderness for days and ate squirrels and roots.

It would be a problem if he did. For the first time, Ghirahim was starting to doubt whether this whole week was actually enough time.

The wind whispered ominously in the wall of trees that had swallowed horse and rider.

/

Ghirahim officially hated the countryside.

He had been relieved to find out that at least one of these villagers had shown the proper human greed, making use of the fact that there would always be visitors as long as Link wasn't dead or moved away. The _Lumpy Pumpkin_ was the only hotel around, and Ghirahim had known he wouldn't like it, he just hated camping even more.

He hadn't known how little he'd actually like it.

The hotel was obviously also the local saloon. There was no other word to describe that _racket _in the taproom, a noise that followed Ghirahim up the stairs and to his room. The girl accompanying him was either deaf, or she had the positive-thinking to the core. She had introduced herself as Kina and turned out to be an annoyingly nice person – normally the kind you could easily take advantage of, unfortunately, it required acting annoyingly nice as well.

Ghirahim had tried, but it turned out to be incredibly difficult after Kina readily rattled off the Pumpkin's menu. Woodcutters seemed to be regular customers around here; Ghirahim had never seen a menu that contained that many nastily fatty dishes. That stuff would clog his arteries even before he swallowed it.

Kina frowned at him for skipping dinner, and Ghirahim swore to himself that this greasy grub was not ever going down his throat.

The room turned out to be rustic and relatively clean, the walls proved to be too thin to keep out the noise. The flower-filled wallpapers were hurting Ghirahim's eyes, and he glared at them when Kina had finally left, probably to gossip with her fellow idiots about the new intruder. Ghirahim would have to deal with them since they knew more about Link's habits – just not today.

He took off his boots and gingerly sat down on the bed, rolling his eyes when it creaked. He didn't need that softporn-sound now, thank you very much. He would have some tea and go over the photos that he had taken so far.

The farm house had one-way-glass in its windows, so Ghirahim hadn't been able to sneak a peek. He had walked around the building, discovering a small fruit and vegetable garden, a cat dozing in the sun (Ghirahim had avoided it before it could stick its pesky hair to his clothes), an empty washing line and an old hammock. The only furniture outside was a small wooden table with two chairs.

Ghirahim had carefully captured the last theme. For someone as inhospitable as Link, it seemed strange to put up a chair for someone else. When Ghirahim had gotten a closer look at the stable, he had discovered a small tag on the box of the horse that read _Epona_.

There was only one horse and only one person tending to it, so it was completely unnecessary to label it. And there was no use for a second chair, unless Link put his feet on it. Perhaps there was nothing to it – it could be a coincidence.

But Ghirahim couldn't shake off the feeling that the house was waiting for someone.

Well… nice and sappy, Link certainly delivered a brilliant performance, someone should cast him to star in one of his own films. Ghirahim wasn't going to think about this. He used the lexicon on his blackberry for the maybe third time in years to look up Epona; as it turned out, it was the Celtic goddess of fertility as well as the Roman goddess of horses. The chick was pretty tied-up, it seemed.

It wasn't all that much for the first day, he had to admit. And this… unforeseen occurrence…

It would be long days. But that did not mean they would not be successful.


	3. Day two: A Moment of Madness

A Moment of Madness

_A/N: Did I mention that the alert-function is great? If your computer tells you that a rainbow has added your story, it's just cool. You guys have seriously fabulous names. Thank you again for reviewing so much!_

_(I have an annoying soft spot for hints; you'll probably know what I mean if you reach that point in the chapter. Can't help it.)_

_A promise of passion_

_A trailer of sin_

_A smiling assassin_

_The demon within_

(Katie Melua, 'A Moment of Madness')

/

Ghirahim woke up and immediately had a fabulous idea.

It was not a normal occurrence because Ghirahim was not what you called a morning person. To be honest, he disliked waking up in general – everything was out of order, his hair had knots, his muscles were heavy and clumsy, his mouth was dry and his thoughts were stumbling drowsily. It was the moment when he was weakest, and that's why he preferred to wake up all alone. Allowing someone to see all his flaws and imperfections was a much too high price for a kiss or two and a body to curl around.

Ghirahim rolled onto his back and stared blankly at the wooden ceiling, pondering how his mind could be this lively when he hadn't even brushed his hair from his face. Maybe it was true what people said about healthy country air. Anyway.

What if he compensated Link's silence by communicating with him in written form?

Granted, that method heavily relied on Link's cooperation, and after yesterday's lovely first meeting, that boy wouldn't be too eager. But Ghirahim still thought it was brilliant. After all, Link was an author, so he craved to write, right? Even Ghirahim, who was an author in the broadest sense, knew that desire – though in his case, it had more to do with the delicious feeling of power and the guarantee that whatever he chose to say was law to a lot of people. Link had to have that manipulative side to him as well, he could not be _that_ boring.

He'd be in trouble if Easy Rider was still sulking; Ghirahim doubted that the villagers would care to tell him where to find Link. He should have brought a homing device for that guy… But there was no use crying over spilled milk.

Talk about milk. Ghirahim sat up und slowly began stretching his limbs, waiting for his circulation to accept that there was not going to be any more sleep now. A part of his sluggish condition was the fact that he had not eaten in a while, and the smell of fatty bacon that began to leak through his door was not appealing his stomach – he had carefully trained that, so he was _not_ giving in.

This hotel was loathsome, through and through. If Ghirahim wasn't harassed by sound or smell, he hated the very idea of being here. He would reconsider staying in the car, but this place at least had a shower.

Yes, it was always the little things.

/

Ghirahim opted for toast and turned the owner of the _Lumpy Pumpkin_ into his mortal enemy by rejecting the very idea of having chocolate for breakfast – or anything sweet at all. It was rare for Ghirahim to experience that someone wanted to fuss over his eating (and suggesting that he should eat carbs, so it wasn't happening), and he immediately decided that he didn't cherish it. Ghirahim was not someone who enjoyed being taken care of. Perhaps there had been a time when he did, but it seemed like that trait had proven to be too weak to survive. He did not mourn it.

He briefly saw Kina again (apparently, she was the daughter of the house or something like that), and she gave him a weird look.

Oh, how could he have forgotten that these bumpkins were already preparing to burn him at the stake for getting close to their favorite frigid? If only they knew what blasphemy he was going to commit…

Ghirahim's mood hardly improved after breakfast. He was still grumpy about his stained jeans and his dirty boots, both looking like they were beyond cleaning. Of course, there was no bloody Laundromat around, he was lucky if washing wasn't still done with curd soap around here.

… There had been a fucking _bar of soap_ in the shower stall! If Ghirahim hadn't wisely brought his own products, he would have shoved that thing down someone's throat rather than letting it touch his skin. He was seriously insulted. This place was technologically retarded and no one had at least opened a donation account.

Despite his personal grumbling, Ghirahim thought it better to dress more sober today. Not less fabulous, of course, and he simply couldn't leave without his beloved boots. The soft denim of his purple jeans nicely matched his eyeliner and didn't fail to highlight the curve of his buttocks – if Link hadn't noticed that by now, he would soon. Talk about a man who only knew knotholes and riding with a saddle… Ghirahim would get him on black ice, one way or another.

He paid close attention to the woods around him as he drove to the farm house. Sometimes he caught sight of small trails leading into the green, but most of the time, the brush was too thick to invade it. There was no way the coupé could make it through that wilderness without getting stuck, Ghirahim doubted that even a horse could move around freely.

As if the whole affair wasn't already complicated enough. He was getting the feeling that this was not an interview – it was a safari. Big game hunting.

It seemed to be another of these delightfully sunny days. Ghirahim blinked lazily, for once enjoying the warmth dripping through the glass and onto his skin. With the bumpy road going on straight for what seemed to be forever, he was tempted to close his eyes. This place was deserted anyway, and with the window slightly open, the breeze caressing his face felt wonderful…

Ghirahim's eyes snapped open when a brown colossus appeared in front of the car.

He slammed the brakes out of instinct rather than out of fear. The motor gave a strangled screech, the sudden drop of speed killed the engine. Ghirahim was roughly shoved forward before the safety belt restricted him and abruptly cut off his breath. It left him gasping for air, his heart beating wildly in shock.

Epona eyed him dispassionately. He guessed it was Epona because the horse was brown and there was that white mark on the head. Ghirahim didn't care – all it mattered was that this beast had violated his right of way and nearly his health.

"_What the hell?_", Ghirahim yelled and pushed his door open, fumbling off his safety belt with stiff fingers.

"What are you trying, you fucking suicide pony? Let me tell you, if I had gotten my hands on a truck, you'd be Carpaccio by now!"

His pulse was still racing. It was not like he could have avoided crashing into the horse with all these stupid trees lining the street; it was simply because of the rough surface that he had been driving slow enough to stop in time. Ghirahim chose to not think about the scenario if he had really closed his eyes. The collision with a body that big would have knocked him off the road and into a trunk.

Ghirahim walked up to Epona, momentarily forgetting his suspicion towards the horse. His knees felt shaky, and Ghirahim absolutely _hated_ this lack of control. He reached out spontaneously and slapped Epona on its (this was certainly not the time to bend over and check the gender) soft, brown nose. The horse flinched back and jerked up his broad head to protect itself. Ghirahim only huffed.

"See that, pony? It's the whole wide wood, and you flea taxi choose to run around on _my _street in front of _my _hood and expect _me_ to stop in time? You're damn lucky this isn't my car and I don't give a shit about the gears!"

Ghirahim had the faint idea that he was not making much sense, scolding a horse that seemed to ignore him from the moment on he had stopped smacking its nose. It stood on the pavement and was probably engaged in some incredibly important process of digestion.

"Get back to Daddy, you nag, move it!"

Epona did not move.

Ghirahim scowled and stepped closer and flicked Epona's nose, almost earning a painful bite. There was no head-collar or any sort of handhold on the horse, and Ghirahim was more cautious now. He had seen the large yellow teeth – now what about not looking a gift horse in the mouth…

He tried to shoo Epona.

"There's no food here, pony, get going. I don't have all day. We'll never look as fabulous as we do now again – well, I will, but you won't get to see it." Epona was unfazed by Ghirahim's logic. It swung his tail after some flies, and his ears shifted slightly.

Ghirahim swallowed his revulsion and have the broad backside a shove. It was like trying to push a fully enrooted tree, not moving an inch. Epona's hairy tail grazed his arm, and he growled.

"This is it, pony. _Move_."

He should have brought a taser. Ghirahim walked back to the car, having calmed down at least, and sat down. Even this dense animal would know that you didn't block the way of a car, even if hardly anyone seemed to use these vehicles around here. That was likely why the road was too narrow to pass Epona when that thing was standing right in the center.

The engine gave a gruffly cough when Ghirahim started it, but it seemed to have forgiven the sudden stop. He fully expected Epona to move away from the slowly approaching vehicle (after jumping over the fence yesterday, it couldn't be a challenge to take a few steps to the side), and was dismayed to stop once again, this time with the hood lingering centimeters away from the flank of the horse.

"What are you trying, pony? Is this supposed to be a barricade?"

_Is it working?_, Epona's large dark eyes seemed to ask.

And to be honest, yes. Ghirahim knew that being honest was not part of his job, still he had to admit that this development was becoming a real problem. Even if his car had been strong enough to force Epona to move (without pushing it all the way to the farm house), Link was probably not talking to him in even ten years if he made a scratch on that beast. Whatever sense that made. It was an animal, it would heal without costing money, that was one of the few perks of living creatures.

Well… He'd better come up with something. Ghirahim had never been the meditative kind, and how did you explain yourself to livestock whose brain only contained eating yummy grass and rolling in wet dirt? And making love to other nice, uh, ponies.

"You're doing this on purpose", Ghirahim concluded and flicked his hair, running his tongue along the corners of his mouth while he thought. Epona just stared.

This left the opinion of walking. Ghirahim was positive his boots were already ruined, but that didn't mean his feet were the next in line. He still had some distance to go, and considering the condition of this road, he'd be lucky if there were still feet beneath his blisters when he arrived. And his rented car would probably be hauled off, so that would leave him without any vehicle at all. Wasn't happening.

Ghirahim wouldn't be the Demon Lord of Skyward Serenade if he didn't know how to bribe.

"Since you can't name your price, we'll do this with method equus. You want this, pony?" He showed Epona the apple that he had planned as a snack for lunchtime. Epona sniffed it, but appeared hardly tempted, even after Ghirahim tossed the fruit into the bushes, the horse didn't follow.

Playing hard to get? Ghirahim went over the few things in his car that were harmless for a non-human. Perhaps the gender would give him a hint? Ghirahim sighed and walked up beside Epona, then he bent sideways to give an inappropriate stare. Looked like… a girl, so – would she be fine with being fed the Vague or something?

Ghirahim was about to straighten up again when something moist and warm nuzzled his neck, bristle-like hair poked his skin. Ghirahim involuntarily yelped and jumped back, this time his lips pursed in anger. "That does it, I'm knocking you over, and if it's the last thing I-"

Ghirahim stopped in his tracks when Epona titled her head to lick the fingers pointing accusingly at her.

It could have been sexy coming from someone at least human. Coming from a horse, it was neither harassment nor flattering. Ghirahim briskly wiped his neck with a towelette to get rid of the saliva and grimaced.

"Let me guess, pony… You like my body lotion."

Epona affectionately sniffed his skin.

He'd had a very different kind of _delicious_ in mind when he'd bought that gooseberry-scented lotion.

Ghirahim took the bottle from his bag and eyed Epona with clear annoyance before squeezing some of the viscous substance on his palm. This time, Epona followed him to the side of the street and began licking the stone that Ghirahim smeared the lotion on.

Well… He guessed that the pony could stomach body care products. Either way, he could go on.

Ghirahim was getting seriously irritated. Hopefully, he had completed the spellbound rose garden now – so it was time to board the castle of the blistering virgin princess.

Sleeping Beauty was not sleeping. In fact, she was wide awake for the sake of giving her prince a splendid kick in the nuts.

Metaphorically speaking.

Link did look up when Ghirahim strode towards him with a notepad in hand (he had guessed something not that technological was better since Link had displayed such a caveman-mentality), he even showed a slight surprise when he recognized the familiar silhouette.

Then he lowered his head again and continued to peel potatoes.

Ghirahim was relieved to see that the author had returned, so he didn't really mind the lack of enthusiasm. The horse-barricade, whoever had had that amazing idea, hadn't worked out, so he was magnanimous. That state of mind wouldn't last long, so he should get started.

Link had seated himself at the table in the small garden and was using a short, straight knife to cut long, twisted garlands from the raw potatoes. The other chair was occupied by a pot with the prepared vegetables while the peels dropped into a bucket between Link's feet.

Ghirahim briefly wondered whether he had just been over-sensitive when it came to those two chairs. It could very well be that Link simply kept one chair as a replacement or additional furniture. After all, you didn't _need_ a lot of things, and you still had them.

Ghirahim not, of course. His flat in Hyrule City didn't have space for unnecessary stuff.

"Good morning, sunshine. Look what I brought you!"

Link rewarded him with the usual silence, he didn't even look up when Ghirahim took the pot from the chair and sat down, presenting him the pristine and gently lavender-tinted pad.

Ignorant little jerk.

"Since you're so adamant about not breaking your vow of silence, I figured we could communicate by letters. You want to get started with something easy?"

Link dropped some potato peels and tossed the potato without glancing. If he pot had still been there, the tuber would have hit it – this way, it landed in Ghirahim's lap. The Demon Lord was controlled enough to not flinch, though he inwardly shuddered when the cold, slick ovoid slid across his thighs.

Not fab. Not fab. Plain disgusting, and he'd just _love_ to fling this gift from Mother Earth in Link's face. But if ever word got out that Ghirahim had failed to make this guy talk, he'd never live it down. His power was absolute. It had to be.

"Very funny." Ghirahim took the potato between his fingertips and dropped it into the pot, then he took out a pencil (yes, nice and primitive, no buttons to press on this writing utensil) and offered it to Link.

"How are you feeling today?"

Link dragged the knife along another potato. The peel fell off before he was entirely done. Ghirahim smiled, enjoying a small, sadistic pleasure. "I'll note that down as _I was fine until you came along_, alright?" He didn't wait for confirmation and scribbled the words down in his curly, bold handwriting.

"See, it's not that hard, huh?" Ghirahim beamed with expertly faked happiness, feeling actual delight because he _knew_ that Link detected the falseness. And with a little luck, he was too preoccupied with that matter to conclude that an interview in Ghirahim's handwriting was worth nothing. If simply coming here was proof enough for a successful meeting with Link, Hyrule would be full of people who knew what was going on in his mind. Some of them had written biographies with presumably a healthy percentage of own fantasy.

"Wanna do the next one all alone?" Ghirahim offered the pencil again, and this time, Link actually stopped pretending to be a housewife and looked at him. His blue eyes held a dull expression, as if peeling the potatoes took all his concentration. Ghirahim didn't like it; didn't like that he could not tell whether this was how Link truly felt or nothing but a deception to discourage him. This was his work, so he could not lose interest in the author – but it was a strange sort of shame if yesterday's fire was all there was to Link's temperament.

Link put down his knife and took the pencil. He snapped it with his hands.

_You _always _deliver, don't you, my little caveman? _Ghirahim smiled smugly and let his eyes follow the pencil-halves when Link dropped them into the bucket.

"Impressive." There was no need for a sarcastic undertone, but Ghirahim liked the idea of conveying that he thought of Link as too dumb to notice. The flash of anger in Link's eyes was like a beacon, a siren's call.

He pulled out another pencil (he'd seen this coming, though he had expected Link to throw the utensil away instead of breaking it like an angry infant) and lightly touched his lips with the end, giving the image of a pensive artist. "Well excuse me, princess… I didn't know writing would be such a pain for you. You used to say that you like storytelling." Ghirahim injected a disappointed note into his voice, as if Link had been lying to him on purpose. Though he still had trouble seeing the shy, green boy in the man sitting in front of him.

Of course, the honest yet very careless remark had triggered loads of fans who had wanted to tell Link their story in exchange. He didn't have a clue about human minds back then, and Ghirahim doubted he had found one, now. After all, Link had not even realized that it was useless to wait for his uninvited visitor to flounce away.

"By the way, your horse likes me." Epona liked the smell of gooseberries – but that was a note that Ghirahim had always favored, even though being a fashionista requited changing perfumes often, he kept that special scent for himself. So it wasn't wrong to say Epona liked _him._ Good thing the world was so simple.

Link took the last potato and dug his knife in. Perhaps he needed illustrative material, so Ghirahim sketched a horse on the notepad (he had never been talented in drawing, but there was a head with ears and four legs and a scrubby tail) and held it under Link's nose. The hermit continued peeling, but his eyes inevitably landed on the page.

_One word about a potato on legs, and I will personally trim your ridiculous hair with that knife._

Ghirahim leaned forward as if to inspect the picture closer. "Impressive, isn't it?"

Link hissed – it was a very quiet sound that Ghirahim wouldn't have heard if he hadn't been so close to the hermit. Oh, Link didn't seem to understand that the key to ignoring someone properly was not interacting with that person at all…

Link glanced at his hand. His view had obviously been blocked by the notepad, and now there was a small, bleeding cut on his thumb. Ghirahim could have sworn that Link hadn't been really looking at his hands while peeling the other potatoes either, and he actually cut himself because of a talent-free drawing of his pony?

Ghirahim smirked and simply dropped pad and pencil into the grass, catching Link's hand before he could wipe the blood off with his shirt. _Unless it wasn't the picture that distracted you, hmm?_

It was natural for people to develop reservations if they spent three years pretty much isolated from human contact – but it was harder to tell whether reservations made someone resent or crave this contact. Ghirahim was ever-willing to try and find out.

His tongue darted out and swept over the small cut, taking in the coppery taste of blood, bitter potato juice and a hint of salt – it was not an appealing mixture and surely not the grade of sterility that Ghirahim was used to, and yet, it was a peculiar thrill to run his tongue along the callused, rough skin, to feel the slight twitching of muscles beneath that subtly indicated the shiver that rained down Link's spine; however, it remained mysterious what he thought of it. Link wouldn't know how Ghirahim's pulse quickened that very second, how the nerve endings in his lips tingled with longing to touch skin. How it was almost painfully disappointing when Link found the presence of mind to yank his hand away.

Ghirahim smirked, hopefully the expression covered whatever madness had suddenly beset him – Link wouldn't look too close.

It was not the fact that he had yearned for somebody, rather the suddenness, the intensity of that surge. For just a moment, he was insecure; but he couldn't afford to lose the opportunity.

Link stood up abruptly and gathered the pot, leaving both the bucket and the slightly bloody potato at the table. Ghirahim caught a glimpse of his barred expression, and also of the light reddening of his ears. The wounded thumb was hidden in a clenched fist.

"Excuse me again, princess – the sight of blood is always tolerable as long as it isn't your own, right?" He followed Link, who brusquely strode towards the back door of the farm house. His shoulders were tense, an unmistakable signal to leave him alone; Ghirahim ignored that, of course. In case Epona had magically teleported here, she would hopefully still remember the body lotion that she obviously liked.

Link glared at him, then he opened the door, blocking the frame with his body. He was neither bulky nor unusually tall, Ghirahim exceeded him by at least a hand's length. Nonetheless, it seemed like Link filled that space as effectively as a massive lock. He held the small kitchen knife in his hand – a weapon much less intimidating than the pitchfork, but also much sharper.

If Link ever decided to strike, which Ghirahim doubted. Try as you might, he lacked sangfroid to be brutal, or he would have sandbagged his intruder at their first meeting. This was his property, so theoretically, he had the right to do so, nobody would care.

And there it was again, that dangerous desire to provoke. Ghirahim couldn't help it.

"What's wrong, pony-princess? You can't get back into your blissful mourning until I get what I want. And by that time, maybe you can admit that you are wasting your youth out here."

Link's eyes narrowed a fraction, but he set the pot down somewhere near the door, not throwing it at Ghirahim. Had he actually misread the man? There was evidence that Link was mad at him, and still it seemed like the snide suggestion hadn't struck a nerve. How was that possible?

Link gazed at him, his expression once more clear. _You understand nothing._ Then he slammed the door shut.

They'd see about that. This time, Ghirahim was prepared for waiting.

Granted, it was uncomfortable.

Ghirahim was not used to the sun, so he got back into the car and watched the house. There were two exits, so he could not really be sure if Link didn't leave, but he was fairly sure the blond would not flee from him again, it would be disgraceful. Observing a house was, nonetheless, incredibly boring.

It gave Ghirahim more than enough time to think. That was uncomfortable, too.

How could he be wrong with his assumption? Perhaps Link was nothing but a good actor. After all, it made sense – that boy denied himself pleasure because the person he had wanted to share his life with was dead, and he was not. So he spent his days pretending she would come anytime from that jewelry store. He possibly suffered from writer's block, his creativity having run dry by the loss of his fiancée. The kind of tragedy you cozily enjoyed from your couch when it was brought up in a soap-opera.

So why was there no indication that Link felt this way? It was possible that he was very good at lying to himself, and he did get mad for jabs at his dead girlfriend. Ghirahim had a lot of experience with reading people; and the uneasy feeling was creeping up to him that there was more. He had not figured Link out yet.

Fabulous that no one knew that. After all, he had five full days.

When the evening colored the sky in a lovely shade of orange, Ghirahim decided to call it a day. He had grudgingly admitted to himself that he needed to do a little research – there was no internet in this hicktown, but he'd charm someone to talk, and maybe he would let himself get bored out of his ruined boots by those first two books that Link had written. Probably everyone in the village owned those tomes, and it was true that the style of writing always gave an insight into the character if you knew how to read it right.

It was not very satisfying, but it was better than thinking of the strange yearning that had befallen him when he had touched Link's skin for the first time. Reluctant to bring that up again, Ghirahim got out of the coupé and stretched languidly. He'd had enough time for yoga, at least, and the annoying horse hadn't shown up.

He would at least give Link a proper goodbye – unfortunately, the spoilsport was not in the garden, apparently he was determined to stay in his farm house until Ghirahim left for the night. The Demon Lord picked up his notepad, raising his eyebrows when he noticed that the page he had been writing and drawing on was missing.

It was pinned to the back door with the kitchen knife (very archaic, simply fab!). Ghirahim inspected it closer, smiling when he discovered a small, neat line that had not been there before.

**Go away.**

Ghirahim couldn't help it: he laughed, pulling out the knife and lightly touching it to his cheek before whispering a kiss on the small blade. The page in his hand was warm from the sun. Ghirahim had no idea if Link was watching him from inside that house; it was not important, not that much.

He wrote an answer, leaving the paper on the table, weighing it with the knife.

**Next time, I'll make us blood brothers.**


	4. Day three: I Wanna Life

I Wanna Life

_A/N: I'm very glad to hear that it's possible to be sympathetic to Ghirahim – yes, he's a little princess, but he's got armloads of rainbows! I have, too. Your reviews really make me giggly!_

_Virtual candy to everyone who watched the cartoon from Legend of Zelda. To ease the pain._

_No damaged goods can be refunded_

_On broken hearts I can't rely_

_I found a diamond that shines brightly_

_I can't let that go – don't pass me by…_

(Goldfrapp, 'I Wanna Life')

/

"_This is something that I have to do, my lady. They believe in me – they all do!"_

"_But faith does not make you strong. That is where you are wrong. Living up to expectations is something that will satisfy them and sap your strength. It is not worth it, hero." And her voice was not admiring, just as soft and lifeless as the dust covering her like a gentle burial cloth. "You have made your choice."_

"_My lady! Don't leave me, don't!"_

"Oh, for the love of fucking plotbunnies!" Ghirahim slammed the book shut and resisted the urge to pour his mug of tea onto it to rinse out the content. Just what on earth was wrong with this book? And what was wrong with this dense protagonist and his imbecile wailing – _my lady, my lady_! And the nerve of that girl, bitching as if he had cheated on her with every potted plant he'd come across! This had to be the dumbest, most primitive typescript that he had ever-

"It's wonderful, isn't it?"

Yes, that error in taste had to be some kind of wonderful. Ghirahim forced his hands to relax and looked up to see Kina eyeing him sympathetically. He could feel someone glaring daggers at his back, but didn't pay special attention to that. He was an intruder, after all, and pestering their darling flower Link.

"Indeed. I seem to forget my breakfast over that chapter", he murmured, his voice was laced with a lightness that indicated irony. However, the cheerful hustle on the porch drowned that out. It was another sunny morning, and Ghirahim had decided to eat on the broad porch of the _Lumpy Pumpkin_ to escape that smell of bacon and eggs. Unfortunately, every other customer seemed to have had the same idea. So the smell stalked him, even under the colorful sunshade that kept the morning sun off. Ghirahim had figured it was better to control his tan.

Kina stared at the bowl of oat flakes, but wisely decided against bugging the Demon Lord with sugar, honey or cinnamon, whatever fatty addition she would suggest. Ghirahim wasn't sure why the girl even stuck to him, although he could use her assistance. It was just like working, only without having to pay her.

"It's so… sensuous", he remarked. Fabulous lie. The most intense physical contact he'd witnessed so far had been the lady resting her hands on the protagonist's palms – if that was supposed to create erotic tension, Link still had a lot to learn about the stuff underneath the clothes.

Kina didn't seem to mind, she was practically brimming with excitement. "_Magnificent_, isn't it? It's so touching!"

Ghirahim thought that he'd obviously missed the touching-part. The part where that whiny chick loosened her corset and ripped up the breeches, that was what he termed as _touching_.

He produced an expectant smile. "Which part are you referring to?", he asked. _And please tell me that it involves a discovery tour under the bodice and at least some blood, not serenades of chivalrous lovey-dovey._

Kina gave a very feminine giggle that could easily melt a man's heart. In Ghirahim's heart, it awoke the wish to jump into his breakfast bowl.

"Oh… For example, there is this moment when he sees the lady for the first time. It's so… She's so beautiful! All he does is describe her in that tender way of his, take her completely in, and it concludes in your mind that she must be so beautiful! I've never seen such a delicate style of writing, it's… it's like the book leads the way and your mind follows on its own. It's incredible, it's… the work of a genius!"

And to Ghirahim, it had looked the work of a superbore. But only great minds thought alike. Although seeing Kina blush with enthusiasm and stumble over her words did emphasize one thing once more: those two books were legendary, even after three years time. Ghirahim recognized the praise he'd already read somewhere in a similar form, and everyone seemed to agree that Link was something special, even those few who had really not liked his work.

Special? More like someone from an ivory-tower, no kidding. What the fuck was that about, not telling that lady that she was damn pretty? That was the whole deal with women, they wanted to _hear _it, not trust their boyfriend to 'conclude'. It was way too abstract.

"I see… Too much of a genius to give his characters names, eh?" Ghirahim was honest despite his playful tone. That dampened Kina's mood for some reason, and she frowned at him.

"That's because you don't see – the narrator does not have a name, nor does the lady. They are both tools, and people keep giving them titles and stuff. It's not before the end of the second book that the hero realizes that he lets himself be exploited without knowing who he is, and who his princess is." Kina disapprovingly cocked her head, obviously disappointed by Ghirahim's lack of appreciation. "In the third and final book, he will discover his real name, and the boundaries will fall. Only then can he face-"

"Technically, there is no third book, so there's no way of knowing, darling." Ghirahim sadistically enjoyed cutting her off like that, watching her face fall. It was not a smart thing to do, especially because Kina could be helpful. Truth be told, Ghirahim wasn't sure where it had come from. He hadn't slept well (stupid books boring the fab out of him!), so he blamed it on that.

"'s he bothering you, Kina?"

A young man with chestnut-colored hair and a challenging glimmer in his eyes appeared behind the girl, seemingly ready to fire sappy one-liners for her sake. Ghirahim was less than impressed.

The situation seemed to be a frequent occurrence, at least by the way Kina relaxed and smiled an easy, professional smile at her defender. "We were just discussing literature, Keet. Is something the matter?"

Ghirahim drank the rest of his tea. _Do piss off, Keet, I'm trying to work here._

Keet seemed a little lost due to the way Kina handled the situation like an ordinary chat with a guest, so he quickly prepared to drag the conversation into the comely corner of escape and rescue again. "That's what I'm askin' you, if there's-"

"Not a problem, you are indeed very welcome to claim your lovely girlfriend again – I lost track of time", Ghirahim purred, his smile was slightly sourly when he stood up. Keet immediately blushed at the mention of his girlfriend, or his favorite wishful thinking, and Ghirahim blinked dryly. _Congratulations, Keet, for having the attention span of a two-year-old. You fail at heroism._

"You're leaving already?" Kina seemed much less flustered. "Would you like a tour through the village?"

Why the hell would he? And how had she gotten the idea that Ghirahim gave a flying fuck about this place, just because it was better than a tent? It was becoming tiring to keep up the open-hearted smile.

"Unfortunately, I must excuse myself now."

"You hardly ate", Keet put in. Not another one of those food-advocates! There had to be a nest of them somewhere around. Ghirahim gritted his teeth and winked at him. "Have a fabulous day, you two."

He took the book and elegantly navigated his way between the tables and off the porch. Kina sighed and began to clear the table, and Keet frowned. "Oh, so it's _that_ guy."

/

Day three of the safari posed a new problem: this time, Link really was absent.

Ghirahim didn't know it at once, of course. He walked around the farm house to search for Link, and there were traces that the author had been outside. Damp clothes were neatly lined on a washing line; it was sunny and warm, but they were not yet dry. Ghirahim took the opportunity to inspect the clothes – Link pretty much ignored fashion trends, and while a person's clothes usually told significant things about the owner, these didn't seem very informative. Link favored plain cotton and at best very simple patterns. And he obviously didn't fear thievery. Well, who would.

The only interesting observation Ghirahim made was that the shirt Link had worn yesterday was among the laundry. It was nothing terribly special if he chose to wash it now, still he had eliminated any trace of gooseberry that might cling to the fabric. Fortunate coincidence.

Epona was grazing nearby on the paddock. When she noticed Ghirahim, she came closer to the fence, sniffing at him. Seemed like she had digested the body lotion well, because there was no colic in sight.

"What do you want, pony? I'm not feeding you."

He wasn't developing any attachment to that beast only because it had done the marvel of moving its butt off the street yesterday. And if Epona had any clue where Link had gone, she kept it to herself.

Ghirahim frowned thoughtfully and ran his tongue over the corners of his mouth again. He supposed he could wait for Link, but that could easily waste a whole day. He had recently demonstrated that he was patient, and this had aggravated Link enough to actually leave him a message, the first real interaction. Instead of hiding in his gingerbread house (all that kitsch surrounding you had to be too much to endure), he'd make use of the fair weather.

Well, fuck. As if outdoor activities weren't overrated enough.

The Faron Woods were huge. The chance of finding someone around here was, to be optimistic, pretty slim, especially when Epona seemed to move around freely and was therefore quite fine if she was on her own for a few days. Ghirahim experienced a small moment of earnest fear, imagining that scenario. That bastard could kick the can down the road. Ghirahim should at least have kept that blasted page containing Link's handwriting, but that was gone. How could that odd mood have lured him into such an amateur mistake…?

Something rubbed against his calf. Something hairy. Something he wanted to kick right _now_.

"What do you think you are doing there, you… furball?"

A cat. A scrawny tabby cat with a ridiculously short tail and large, peridot-colored eyes (the color would have been pleasant if the feline hadn't been squinting so horribly), and it leant against his boot.

Ghirahim had the strangest urge to scream. He _hated_ animals, how was it possible that since coming here, these creatures kept cuddling up to him? Link wasn't here anyway, so he could just kick this thing and at least feel better, right?

It was his short inner debate that cost him time. The cat lifted its paws and dragged them lazily down his boot, scratching the soft leather with the sharp claws. Ghirahim felt it like a real and physical pain, no matter how his skin was actually protected from the claws.

His boots, his favorite, _favorite_ boots! They had been with him when he became the Demon Lord, when he'd completed his famous reportage about the secret life of Tiger Willis, when he'd taken these highly explosive photos on board of a cruiser and when that blithering idiot Lycos had tried and failed at the conference to take over his column. And… not to mention these boots had witnessed some really mind-blowing sex.

There weren't just ruined, they were _fucked up_. And these boots had been made for walking. And that's just what they'd do…

The cat jumped back before Ghirahim's foot hit it, fur on the back immediately rising. When the tiny tail ruffled, it looked as intimidating as a fluffy bunny's tuft, but Ghirahim was anything but susceptible to cuteness right now.

He was going to kill.

The cat literally turned tail and ran, and Ghirahim followed. It was quick and agile, though it seemingly was not used to anyone chasing it. The strabismus, however, seemed to pose a problem, so the cat chose the shortest route and swiftly climbed up the ivy that entwined around the rain pipe, safely out of Ghirahim's reach. He skidded to halt and glared up, his sharply curved brows knitted together as he was denied the pleasure of taking revenge on that kitty. His heart beat wildly against his ribs as the pressure of frustration raked through his body.

"You scabby piece of filth…! You will atone for this when I epilate every hair off your body and stuff you like a pillow, you can swear that up and down."

The cat blinked at him owlishly, staring at his face with its ridiculous eyes. Ghirahim swallowed the lump of rage that seemed to close up his throat – first things first. Link was his top priority, and he needed a calmness to squeeze himself into that tiny tunnel of Link's mind. In moments like this, he remembered the times when he had pressed his head between his knees to ease his panic. It was well behind him, it had to be, but the memory of his display of weakness always shook him back to sense.

Ghirahim breathed in and turned away from the cat on the roof. Link probably hadn't gone to town, the distance would take quite a while even for someone with good stamina, and for someone as reclusive as that blond, he'd at least take his horse. And Ghirahim knew from his research that Link got his supplies from the small department store in the village that delivered them every two weeks.

So Link had either gone into pathless terrain, or he hadn't gone far at all. Ghirahim had never been a boy scout (not in the traditional way), but perhaps he could find tracks around here.

_Simply fab, now I'm actually considering crawling around in this dirt, sacrificing my jeans and the rest of my boot's dignity for a wood gnome. Whoopdifuckingdoo._

He made a new tour around the farm house, watching out for suspicious paths (one of them leading to the muckheap, thankyouverymuch) that went into various directions. Ghirahim made his way through some fern that reached up to his navel, curiously peeking around. He didn't call out; why warn Link if the guy was obviously avoiding him?

The discovery was unexpected. Ghirahim noticed a movement and even ignored his disgust of bugs and spiders to walk closer to an ash tree. A narrow, wooden swing rocked gently, almost impalpably in the breeze. It was difficult to say how old the toy was, for both wood and rope seemed to be all-natural and were exposed to the weather. Grass and moss were growing underneath the swing, so it didn't seem to be in frequent use.

Ghirahim lifted his camera to take a photo without knowing why he should capture this motive. He could note down how this swing had been built by Link for his non-existent children and he had been in too much pain to remove it, and they would believe him. Just why did he feel like it was wrong in the simple meaning of _untrue_?

Ghirahim snorted inelegantly and crouched down to take his photo.

"You're not getting me", he said with a wry smile, hoping that he was only talking to himself and not to a construction of wood and rope. Besides, he didn't lug around his camera equipment for nothing. He reached for the tripod in his white bag, almost dropping the gadget in his hands when his fingers touched something soft.

The cat lovingly examined the small, glittering rhinestones on the bag and looked up when Ghirahim accidentally touched its fur. The awfully squinting eyes locked with Ghirahim's for a second, and before he knew it, claws dug into his bare arm and a scrubby bundle of cat launched itself up and onto his shoulder to bat at the shiny diamond dangling from Ghirahim's right ear.

The Demon Lord was very rarely stunned. Having that happen twice in about half an hour could only mean that the apocalypse was close.

Ghirahim ripped the cat from his shoulder, wincing when the thin, sharp claws tried to grasp his skin and dug deeper. The feline twisted from his grip before he even knew what he was going to do (physical violence against animals was rather new to him) and jumped back. This time, it fled deeper into the wood – Ghirahim scrambled to his feet and followed, savage instincts of a hunter kicking in.

He hadn't known he possessed those. Self-discovery could be so easy sometimes.

/

Ghirahim discovered one more thing about himself very soon: he was not what you called cross-country.

He was always sure to keep himself in shape by balancing his body with both discipline in fitness training and dieting, and this made sure his sex-appeal was untouched by stress and moods. And usually, Ghirahim would have been sure that sex-appeal was all that mattered.

But chasing a cat through a forest, he neglected it and was rewarded with the unflattering realization that he lacked stamina.

The clearing appeared before him all of a sudden, and he stumbled right into it, his movements a far cry from his sashaying grace; for once, Ghirahim didn't care, for all his thoughts had been drowned out by the fact that he felt like puking out his lungs and every muscle in his burning legs seemed to have tensed to the maximum. His sides ached with each breath, and his face and arms were numb where twigs had whipped the skin. He would have worried about his hair if getting enough air into his strained lungs wouldn't have been completely consuming his brain.

The moderate warmth of the morning had been replaced by summer heat, and he was sweating. When Ghirahim staggered out of the protecting shadows, the light hit him and made him squeeze his already teary eyes shut. At the same time, a balmy breeze blew into his heated face. No high-tech air conditioning had ever felt as sweet as this.

Ghirahim leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. His throat was dry, yet at least he regained some control over his heaving breaths. His legs were shaking slightly from the exertion, and he absent-mindedly plucked a leaf from his hair. It was hopelessly tangled.

Dead cat, right now.

He had wondered why the creature had ran into the woods instead back to the house, since it obviously had trouble seeing straight, then the stitch in his sides had cut off the thought. Ghirahim adjusted the strap of his tote sack on his shoulder and ran his tongue along the sides of his mouth. Luckily, his eye-shadow was water-proof… His lipstick, though, was not.

He blinked against the harsh sunlight and straightened. He had no idea where his chase had led him. Considering that, he was not sure whether this place was even on a map…

Ghirahim faced a lake. The light reflections on the surface were so lurid that he had to avert his gaze; tall grass bordered the shore. The murky water had a shade of grayish green that did not invite you to swim if you didn't want to look like Swamp Thing afterwards, and the ground was dark and muddy. The lake itself didn't have a specific shape; it just twisted into something briefly resembling a hook.

Ghirahim wondered if he had brought insect repellent along.

The sound of meowing awoke his primal urge again, and he forgot his worries. He marched along the shore, careful to stay away far enough to not sink into the mud. "Come on, kitty, we're fixing that malposition of your eyes right away", he growled when he heard the grass rustle. Turning into that direction, he took gingerly step towards the lake. The ground was slippery, and if he ended up falling onto his butt…

The cat darted out of the grass in front of him and snuck past. Ghirahim snarled in rage and whirled around, nearly losing his balance in the process. The mud beneath his feet gave a disgusting squelch.

Link stared at him with an expression that for once declared all vocal communication unnecessary. _What the hell are you doing here. And this is not a question._

Ghirahim didn't bother to decipher, for once. _Talk about cavemen._

Link was not wearing his plain shirt. He had doubtlessly not expected Ghirahim or anyone else to find him, and if the mud on his bare feet and the bucket in his hand were anything to go by, he had no reservations against the lake. The cat brushed against his bare shin, purring frantically and hopefully glancing up at the bucket where something silvery swan in circles. Ghirahim paid no attention to his archenemy.

He'd never had a thing for beefcake-chic before – frankly, he was so used to men running around in shorts, showing off their oiled muscles, that the sight did not harbor any appeal to him, it was on the media every day. And Link seemed to do it all wrong, with his dull-green pants that he had willowed up to his knees, the dark mud clinging to his feet. He was sweating, and his skin didn't seem to be prone to tanning; it had a healthy color with a layer of pale freckles on the shoulders, but his face was unsightly red, the blonde hair stuck to his forehead and neck. His chest was built, however not six-packed. He looked disheveled in an unprofessional, sloppy way.

Ghirahim had never found him more magnetic.

His mouth had been dry before, but now it seemed dry as dust. The intensity of his own reaction intimidated him once more, and suddenly, he grasped for words.

_Don't tell me that virginity of his is contagious. For the sake of being a Demon Lord, don't infect with that!_

"Found you yet again, darling."

Ghirahim smiled triumphantly. So what if luck was one of his fabulous skills, too? All the better!

Link gave him a weary look before his hand flashed into the bucket and took a slim, wildly coiling fish from it. The cat bounced around before his feet (maybe it had some personality disorder and believed it was a dog instead?) and caught the fish, then ran off with its prize. So that was why it had gone after Link…

"I see you are prepared for a photo session." Ghirahim was proud that his voice was not as hoarse as he felt inside. Perhaps Link heard it nonetheless, that would serve the purpose. Anything that made Link nervous did.

The author simply turned away and walked along the shore. Ghirahim allowed himself a short moment to marvel the fine curve of Link's back before strolling after him, taking his camera out. That yomp through the woods might be good for something after all.

Link's fishing ground was a fallen tree whose leafless crown was buried underwater. The tree had seemingly not collapsed there, but had been moved and now served as a swimming wharf. Planks had been nailed to the head wood to ensure a safer footing – though the whole construction still looked pretty slippery to Ghirahim.

He unpacked his equipment and glared at the cat that seemed to have scarfed down the fish and now stared longingly at the diamond at Ghirahim's ear again.

"Your cat likes me, too." Or dog. Or magpie, whatever it was. It wasn't useful and Ghirahim hadn't forgiven it.

Link ignored his remark and phlegmatically endured the flashing of the camera while he took up his fishing rod again. From time to time, he splashed murky water onto his body to cool his skin. The movement probably disturbed the fish and scared them off, but Link didn't seem to mind.

Ghirahim didn't, either. He was busy hating the fact that he could think of Link as sexy even though that greenish water dried on his skin. It was _not fab_, damn it!

"Don't give me that. We did communicate already, so where's the problem?" Ghirahim slowly lowered the camera after he had taken enough pictures of Link in his muddy glory. When the other man didn't respond, he pressed on: "Give me what I want, and I'll _go away_ soon enough, so why don't you get it over with?"

Link didn't actually react, but he glanced up, as if he had sensed something in Ghirahim's words. A question, maybe. _Give me what I want._ It should be obvious that he wanted to complete his interview, and nothing else.

Ghirahim clicked his tongue and stowed his camera safely in his bag before he squared his shoulders and set one foot onto the trunk. He caught sight of his boot, now stained with green, brown and scratches, and of his own reflection and the horribly tousled hair (to be honest, he looked like he had been pulled backwards through a hedge) and quickly proceeded.

The trunk swayed beneath his feet, and the hazy water seemed to look up to him, waiting. The sun pricked the back of his head, and Ghirahim had to hold out his arms to steady himself.

Link didn't watch him. The blue eyes were fixed on the floater, but he had to feel Ghirahim's steps.

It seemed like an eternity until the journalist sat down, his fingers held onto the planks. The trunk still bobbed gently, and there was dirt on the bark, and yet, Ghirahim was satisfied with being above the water. He had to pull up his knees to his chest, and he was sweating even worse – he was sitting. Nice and safe.

"Why do you want me to leave?"

It should be obvious. Link seemed to think so, too. Ghirahim brushed his sweaty hair from his face.

"Is that third book ever going to be published? Have you even written it?"

Something tugged at the floater and swam away again. Insects buzzed in the air. Ghirahim vaguely realized that it could become troublesome to sit in the midday sun like this, especially when he was not used to it and his circulation could be thrown off. But he refused to go already.

"You know, those names – have you actually thought of them?"

A trickle of sweat ran down Link's temple. Without following his own actions at all, Ghirahim leaned over, sharing body heat that was not needed and seemed to make the air between them crackle. His tongue touched the cheekbone lightly, and Link shuddered. It was subtle, but he could feel it.

"The lady…", Ghirahim whispered huskily, "… is she going to be named _Zelda_?"

Link leapt up and ripped the fishing pole from the water, splashing water everywhere. He waded, lustily and tense at the same time, to the shore, and Ghirahim could not follow him that fast.

"I'm right, am I?"

It was the last he saw of the author that day.

/

_Short note again: There was not much interaction this time, sorry; I was preparing. The next day will be more… rich in content. I'm excited to write it!_

_About the use of Own Characters: I'm usually rather negative towards those, however, I will need them for the staff of Skyward Serenade. I cannot really picture Demise in a suit behind a huge desk, and if I use other antagonists from the games, I can't do all of them justice. In addition, I don't know all of them… Bringing in Vaati might cause a storm of fabulousness. _


	5. Day four: I get a Kick out of You

I get a Kick out of You

_A/N: Yes, I got trolled by Frank Sinatra. That song just snuck up to me with the one and only f-word._

_Lots of love for both reviewers and readers! You're addicting._

/

_When I'm out on a quiet spree_

_Fighting vainly the old ennui_

_And I suddenly turn and see_

_Your fabulous face…_

(Frank Sinatra, 'I get a Kick out of you')

/

That would make a change of tune.

Ghirahim knew that after hitting bull's eye, Link would not leave it at ignoring him. It was the fourth day, and he still had no significant material on his hands, so there was no way he could wait a while and pour oil on troubled water – that would ruin the progress he had made in getting under Link's skin.

It would be hard, but today would be trekking-day.

The air was humid and sticky, even in the morning. Pomm, the owner of the _Lumpy Pumpkin_, swore that there would be rain tomorrow, and Ghirahim was almost hoping for it. The sweltering weather had had him tossing and turning in his sleep, waking up sweaty and disoriented. And still, the sky was a deep blue, without a single cloud smeared upon it. Ghirahim glared at it when he exited the hotel in the early hours of morning, when the warmth was still moderate, but the air was already thick and heavy. People claimed that the shadow of trees was cooler than normal shadow, so why wasn't he feeling anything of it?

He hadn't been able to put on his boots this time – not only were they, well, _indisposed_, they were simply too warm, and one had to make sacrifices. As much as Ghirahim disliked wearing flat shoes and unadorned clothes, the bitter pill was unavoidable. And the skill showed in the ability of still looking _simply fab_.

He still hated it, but nevermind. It had been a while since he had been all paparazzi-like. Brought back old memories of a time before the initiation of the Demon Lord…

Ghirahim shoved the sentimentalities aside and parked the coupé on the side of the road, far enough from the farm house to hide the car from Link. He made his way over and sighed lightly in relief when he noticed a small light in one of the windows. Apparently, Link had not left yet, though he was up already. It was six in the morning, for crying out loud! Even Ghirahim, who was used to wretched working hours, had been sure that he was too early to witness any movement inside that house, especially with this weather.

He briefly entertained the idea of Link stepping outside to enjoy a cold shower with rainwater in a flimsy outdoor-cabin, but pushed it back when his pulse sped up. What was with that impertinent flicker of hope? After all, he had _seen_ that there was no such cabin, even Link had no sense for such sleazy stereotypes.

_Get a grip. Get a fucking grip, honey, or you'll earn the right to be called 'Debbie' after all._

Very chastening idea.

Ghirahim carefully approached the house, taking a detour to avoid the lighted window. He was dressed in simple Bermuda shorts and a tight fitting, gray polo shirt, even someone as attentive as Link could hardly spot him in the rest of morning twilight that still lingered among the trees.

Epona was up as well, as soon as she saw – or rather smelled – Ghirahim, she widened her nostrils and snorted before making her way over to him.

Ghirahim narrowed his eyes. "Will you stay away, pony?"

Obviously using the stable as cover had not been such a bright idea after all. Ghirahim cast a short glance at the still-closed doors before slowly edging away from the fence.

Epona seemed to recognize his behavior from yesterday – and unfortunately, she also remembered that there had been no treat for her back then. She gave a protesting grunt and stretched her neck over the wooden fence, trying to find skin.

Ghirahim flinched and began to rummage around in his bag for the body lotion. Thank fabulousness he had even brought it along, in case that blackmailing pony came onto him.

"I might just like you, you beast… But don't push your luck", he warned Epona and squeezed some lotion on his palm. Epona eagerly sniffed and didn't wait for him to smear it onto a post, instead her thick, wet horse tongue swept across his skin and sucked in the aroma of gooseberry.

Ghirahim suppressed any sound; though his expression was definitely youth-inappropriate.

"Forget that, I hope you get gonorrhea", he growled and wiped his hand clean on his pants.

Epona drew up her ears, as if considering what he had said. Though thinking about it, it was more likely she had heard something that was familiar…

Ghirahim barely managed to duck down behind a rain barrel before Link opened the door of the stable, giving Epona the possibility to leave the paddock without having to jump. The mare trotted over to him and rubbed her nose on his shoulder, asking to be petted (Ghirahim was thankful she left, still he could not help feeling like he had just been taken for a ride… figuratively speaking). Link reached up and scratched Epona behind her ears, lightly patting her muscular neck. The horse thanked him by nudging his cheek in a sloppy horse-kiss.

Link smiled.

The movement was so fluid that it took mere seconds until the camera flashed. Ghirahim had reacted on his unfailing skill to capture a valuable sight, and the small display rewarded him with dozens of photos. Link's smile was now documented.

So much for having achieved nothing.

The sound made Link whirl around in alarm, but it was too late to prevent anything. Ghirahim smirked at him and stood up, looking entirely as if the whole hiding had been a finely planned trap.

"My, what a lovely smile. Ever thought of selling it for billboard advertising?"

All gentleness had faded from Link's face again. He marched over to Ghirahim and extended his hand, unmistakably demanding the handover of the camera. Ghirahim simply sneered at him and slipped the gadget back into his bag. "What now? Wanna brawl with me?", he scoffed, finding pleasure in that hard mien that did not resemble the strange impression of appeal from yesterday. He spread his arms in mock-invitation out to Link.

"Get your pitchfork if that makes you feel safer. I don't mind making this even more prestigious…"

Link had clenched his fists, there was no way of telling whether he had been preparing to actually punch Ghirahim. However, the passing mention of the general public seemed to jolt him from his anger. It was so easy to pull his strings… Ghirahim would not admit to have felt a short spark of thrill when the author made a move at him for the first time.

The thought of leaking the photo to the editorial office was indeed lovesome, but Ghirahim never delivered his work by pieces, nor did he keep in touch with SkySe as long as he was busy. Making a call was difficult in this backwater anyway.

Link pressed his lips together, a gesture that came alluringly close to a pout as long as you didn't look at his icy expression. He really did have surprisingly full and curved lips – they had looked childlike on him three years ago, and with the green boy all grown up, they now seemed like the only soft feature in his face.

So Ghirahim hadn't been entirely joking about billboard; perhaps he should consider switching over to advertising industry.

Link walked past him, and Ghirahim flounced along, close enough to be seen from the corner of the eye. "So, where are we going today? You can't hide in your little house all day, you know, it's going to be scorching hot."

The short twitching of muscle under Link's cheek seemed to telegraph: _Oh, you don't say._

"And don't even think of doing that horse-thing again. It won't work, alright?", Ghirahim continued, nearly missing a step when the blasted cat strolled up next to Link and tried to catch his attention. His pets sure loved him. Ghirahim only hoped he didn't have more of those nags. He could still see the use in a horse, but that offensive feline…

As usual, Link ignored him and retrieved a watering pot (yellow with a washy flower on it, did that already count as retro-chic?) to supply his small garden before the sun unfurled the full blast. But Ghirahim didn't miss the knapsack sitting on one of the chairs. Apparently, Link was already prepared to leave when his shitty timing had caught up to him.

"You know, I'm amazingly sorry for crowding you like that yesterday. I've just been… _starved_, if you understand what I mean", Ghirahim began, leaning against the table. Link again gave no indication that he'd heard him, he poured water under the leaves of a squash, making the muscles of his biceps swell. Sweat began to darken his plain shirt.

Ghirahim wasn't put off – he used the information he had gotten from Kina, though he couldn't inject the same enthusiasm. "I can't help but wonder about your method of writing, you have such an indirect style. Though I… really enjoyed the first meeting between the hero and the lady."

Three years ago, Link had reacted to compliments by blushing and nodding humbly, requiting the vows of adoration with that shy smile of his. Ghirahim refused to believe that the death of his fiancée had robbed him entirely of the joy of praise. He just had to find the nerve… he should have coaxed Kina to tell him more. She was better at schmoozing than he was.

Suddenly, a fabulous idea struck him.

"It reminded me on a moment in my own life."

There. Link wasn't listening intensely, but he revealed low attention as he watered tomato plants.

_Think of something, shouldn't be too hard, right? Lying through my teeth, I was already sorely missing this._

"It was when I…" No foolish love stories, that was lame. "… did an interview…" And no talking about work, that'd scare the kid off! "… not personally, since I was still an assistant at the newspaper." He was getting the hang of it. "There was this actor I had always admired, and I was dying to talk to him. His skills had left me dazzled whenever I saw him in a film, even the short appearances he made on television were wonderful, they filled my heart with…" O God, he was piling it on now. Ghirahim grasped for some kind of positive feeling that wouldn't sound too corny, after all, he was supposed to madly love that imaginary hottie.

"… well, with rainbows. They filled my heart with rainbows."

_Fucking RAINBOWS? That's it, Debbie. Get a bullet straight through your brain, and do it now._

Surprisingly, Link seemed grudgingly thoughtful. He hadn't stopped watering his plants, but on occasion, he shot a glance.

There was no turning back now. Rainbows it was.

"I wasn't the one doing the interview that time, so I wasn't allowed to talk to him at all and he wasn't looking at me anyway." Ghirahim swallowed the drama that Link probably didn't view as such. "He was unreachable to me, and frankly, I actually knew nothing about him – like the hero does about the lady."

It was a pretty remote connection, but feelings were hardly about logic, right? Link seemed to believe him. Perhaps he didn't care, but he bought that the scene had touched a string in Ghirahim's self.

_You wish, pony-boy._

"So." Ghirahim smiled again and repeated: "Where are we going t'day?"

/

Link was obviously quite sore about the photo, for me made an unrelenting effort of keeping his eyes cast downward while walking. He didn't try to dash off (which Ghirahim was grateful for, since he wasn't too sure he'd be able to keep up if he hadn't been able to catch that fucking cat either), yet he was visibly careful.

Ghirahim wondered why. It was not like anyone expected Link to wear sackcloth and ashes for the rest of his life; if anything, people would drool over him again and all the mothers-in-law would declare him the perfect man. Some guys would kill for the ability of achieving that much with a simple smile.

Ghirahim's smile marked him as a horrible stepson that would still make it worth the while.

"You know, you don't have to _say_ where we are going, but you could give me some sort of signal. Or is this some sort of cross-field-trip?"

It looked as if Link just randomly walked through the woods, Ghirahim had lost his sense of direction long ago. Light filtered through the leaves, and no breeze lifted. It was hot, and having to dodge poison ivy, fallen trees, hives and God-knew-what made it even hotter. It was starting to make him feel dizzy and tired, and he was rapidly losing his patience.

Link regarded him with a frosty lack of compassion and extended his hand again. Ghirahim stuck his tongue out at him. Not that it relaxed him a lot, he wanted to rest.

"Forget it, hon."

Apparently they had maneuvered themselves into a stalemate. It frustrated Ghirahim immensely – Link had accustomed himself enough to his presence to acknowledge that he was no longer alone out here, but he was nowhere near cooperative.

"Are you mortally offended because you feel like I'm doing this solely for money and not out of personal captivation? If so, get over it, I already told you what this means to me." Yes, and he had lied. Well, it would be the high point of his career, so it wasn't entirely wrong to say it meant the world to him.

"Did you, by any chance, watch the movies your books were turned into? I'll take your silence as a No, then."

Link marched on, straight through a small field of stinging-nettles that could not touch his skin through the rugged cotton of his pants. It was probably his way of saying: _I honestly don't want to know._

All the more important to tell him, then. Granted, Ghirahim had to take a detour and then jog to catch up with the author who had nearly disappeared in the woods, but it made him forget about his weariness momentarily.

"You see, the films had to be commercially successful, so they made a few minor changes. Really tiny minor changes."

Link's shoulders had gone stiff again. No doubt he was listening, whether he wanted to or not. Ghirahim smirked and ran his tongue over the corners of his mouth before continuing: "I don't think there was a ballroom scene in the first book, but don't worry, your lady looked absolutely gorgeous in that pink dress, and you can trust me with that… Though it could have been less frilly. Well, and that time when the monster octopus ripped up the hero's shirt, I don't actually remember that happening in the book, but when he threw that bomb at the palace guards…"

Link had stopped in his tracks. The usual healthy flush in his cheeks had mixed with a sudden pallor, spotting the skin with an odd, disharmonious mixture of red and white. Typically, Ghirahim would have made a joke about peppermint drops now, not this time however.

Link looked like he was going to speak. Like his revolt was too strong to be kept inside. He was deliberate about whether Ghirahim was simply making this up, still the mere thought seemed to shake him.

As far as Ghirahim knew, the hero hardly used violence against humans, and he never did so with his sword, as this weapon could only be turned against dark creatures. Fair enough, every infant knew what happened if you threw a bomb at living humans. Link had not taken a large interest in the film adaption back then, and since he hadn't complained about the creative execution afterwards, people had assured he approved of it.

When Link abruptly regained his composure, Ghirahim was more than disappointed. He looked like he had simply flipped a switch in his brain that said _I don't care/on_.

"There's more, actually. Wanna watch it with me?"

It was nothing but scorn, he knew. So it was strange when a chuckle rose in his chest: the thought of sitting down under a tree in this stifling heat in the middle of nowhere to watch two movies on a small screen was so surreal, different from Link's abstract scenarios. It was ridiculous, in a likeable way.

Link slightly opened his mouth. The sickly white blotches were once again replaced by a healthy, angry blush.

_Come on, say 'Fuck you', I won't hold it against you… Not much._

Link bristled and spun around and tramped onward. Ghirahim sighed and followed.

"So much for the sitting-down-part."

_Of course. If your characters don't resort to swearing, then why would you._

/

"That's it!"

Was it possible for a smug smirk to be sprayed like a perfume? Link radiated it, and Ghirahim hated him for it.

"It's past noon – why the hell do you insist on hiking all damn day?"

Ghirahim was slowly reaching his limit. He had thought long and hard about simply sitting down somewhere and letting Link wander around. Even though he had no idea where they were right now (trees all looked the same, damn it), the idea of finally resting his exhausted body was all too appealing. He was soaked in sweat, and his hair was sticky and floppy. If determination hadn't been one of his character traits, he would have given up already.

Link glanced at him, his face once again barred, and Ghirahim raised his chin. "No, you're not getting the camera."

He wished he could have avoided that step.

"You can have the memory chip."

He unsnapped the small cap that protected the interfaces and the chip and fished the black piece of plastic and metal out of it. Link regarded him skeptically, then reached out to take the chip that Ghirahim offered him. He didn't bother to examine it; instead he snapped it with an efficiency like he squashed a bug. No pun intended.

"What's it with you and snapping?" Ghirahim rolled his eyes, making an effort of looking disgruntled (which he was) and resigned at the loss he had suffered.

Fabulously wrong. He still had those photos – they were saved on the camera as well as the memory chip, which was rather handy in his line of work. A peer would have known. Link apparently didn't.

"So, are we bros now or what? I want a break." Ghirahim waved his hand in a failed attempt to fan some air onto his face. Link dropped the broken chip into the grass (some nature lover he was!) and turned around to continue walking.

Ghirahim could have punched him.

"That's it, you cretin-"

There was a sound. The soft purling of water. Ghirahim only then noticed that the carpet of vegetation was getting thinner, making space for…

Yes, that 'smell' of smugness was overwhelming by now.

_Played for a sucker by a blond. Good thing we're even._

Link pretended to be indifferent again as he put down his knapsack and sat down beside the lightly swaying branches of a weeping willow to take off his shoes.

The stream wasn't large at all, and much cleaner in comparison to the lake Link had used for fishing. The water was ankle-deep, knee-deep at most, but the current was strong. The streambed was covered with smooth, brown stones, making it pleasant to look at, however probably painful to walk on.

Ghirahim wasn't willing to care right now. He slumped down onto the grass (gracefully, of course) and put his bag aside, running his hands through his hair. Link hadn't wasted any time to wade into the stream, and Ghirahim watched him with an unnerved expression while sipping on lukewarm water. How that guy could have the energy to flounder about, he had no idea. Ghirahim hated the very idea of getting into motion again, though he had to if he wanted to avoid sore muscles. This morning hadn't given him any time for yoga.

He took off his shoes to gives his soles some rest and began stretching languidly. His legs had tensed up from walking and struggled to flex into the right angles, and Ghirahim soon broke out in a sweat again.

When he pulled his elbow up over his head, he caught Link looking at him – judging by his mixture of confusion and curiosity, he had no idea what purpose the wrenches served. He promptly turned away when he sensed Ghirahim's attention and bent down to splash some water into his face.

Ghirahim smirked and lowered his arm again. He'd bet money that Link now wondered how _flexible_ he actually was…

_All in due time and temperature, caveman._

Ghirahim briefly considered joining the blond in the stream, but his feet felt numb and hot, and he had no desire to make them raw on those rocks. And frankly, he wasn't going to get up now. He pulled his bag behind him and slowly lowered himself on the ground, for once forgetting about bugs and dirt. The murmur of the flowing water was soothing, and there was a small hint of a cool breeze that made the branches of the weeping willow whisper.

Ghirahim's eyes slowly drifted shut.

/

Something dropped on Ghirahim's cheek, gliding across the cup of his ear and disappearing in his hair.

His consciousness was strangely dull, almost paralyzed. Ghirahim cracked open an eye and blinked slowly. His head felt stuffed and was pounding, and his mouth was dry.

_I'd be extraordinarily pleased if these were not symptoms of a heat stroke._

Ghirahim blinked again and quickly took survey of his body (as quick as his sluggish mind could do, at least). He wasn't feeling terribly good, but he was neither nauseous nor suffering from fever. There was still a chance his groggy condition was due to the facts that hadn't slept well and had hardly eaten, so the exertion took a heavier toll on him.

Ghirahim groaned slightly when he sat up – and blinked again. He didn't remember this puffy white clouds being there this morning, when he hadn't yet been too busy hiking through the jungle. And he was pretty sure normal clouds should not move this fast.

"Uuh…"

It was a sound Ghirahim generally reserved for the sight of speed traps or guacamole. The first growl of thunder reached his ears, and another drop of rain fell on his arm. They were still few, as long as the clouds were conglomerating. The sultriness was even heavier now.

Grass rustled softly next to him when Link appeared out of nowhere again, and Ghirahim would not have admitted to actually feel a spark of relief to see that he didn't face this weather alone.

Falling asleep on a tanning bed was idiotic. Falling asleep on the grass somewhere in the wilderness was… normal, maybe, and so dumb you should get watered twice a week for it.

"Before you start your motor mouth again, yes, I _am_ indeed fine, thank you for your tremendous concern", Ghirahim snapped. "I thought it wasn't supposed to rain till tomorrow!"

Link raised his eyebrows about an inch at him. Ghirahim couldn't tell whether the author was concerned about him, but he did pay more attention to him – someone as pacific as him possibly felt guilty, even though Ghirahim had tagged along uninvited. That guy sure had the luxury of weakness.

And he was never trusting a farmer again.

Ghirahim abruptly got up, the movement made him slightly dizzy. He firmly shook his head and dusted off his clothes before giving Link the most soldierly look he could muster. Granted, it wasn't easy when a drop of water hit his nose and reminded him on the rapidly darkening clouds.

"You still refuse to talk to me, and I could care less about that right now, but I did give you the chip, and this _is_ a crisis situation for me." He wasn't lying that much, a city slicker getting into a thunderstorm while being surrounded by trees was making him positively uncomfortable. This seemed to be a day full of half-truths.

"So the least you can do is to allow some form of communication, and I don't care how you do it."

Ghirahim's overconfidence had always bordered to impudence – he wore it well, and characters weaker than his tended to surrender to his dominance. Link hadn't been susceptible to that, but it was too late to back out now.

The hermit narrowed his eyes, bristling visibly at the arrogant tone. A drop of rain seemed to dive into his blond hair, another landed on the bridge of his nose.

Then he nodded gruffly and jerked his head to beckon Ghirahim to follow.

/

Hell broke loose.

Most people dubbed it like that if they witnessed a mass panic in the subway or a seasonal sale in a mall. While Ghirahim faced those situations with almost bored calmness, a summer storm in lovely Faron was different.

The shelter they had found was an open wooden shed, obviously meant for hikers that wanted to rest a while and make a picnic (the forest was usually charming, though it lacked linear walks and signs). It was furnished with a table, a solid bench and a trash bin. The place seemed to be rarely used and was mostly clean, but Ghirahim hated it nonetheless.

"I thought you'd have a chalet or something, it's not like money is your problem anyway."

He huffed and sat down on the bench. The rain was pouring strongly, and it was a good thing they had made it here before they were drenched. But that didn't stop Ghirahim from grumbling; after all, this place didn't even have sanitary installations!

"It's the worst thing to happen because I'm stuck with the man who redefines the term of a rotten conversationalist – and who stared at me while I slept." The last comment was just a jab, but Link seemed to rummage enthusiastically in his knapsack when he heard it.

Ghirahim frowned. _Right on, cowboy. You get the rare chance of witnessing the whole of my incredible looks for half a week, and you choose _that_ moment of all to gawk? If I didn't know you were jailbait, you'd creep me out._

Still, it seemed oddly disarming. Ghirahim sighed and took an apple from his bag. He was actually starving, so he didn't mind the bruises the fruit had taken from being carried around all day. The pounding in his head had gotten a little better by now, and weariness blanketed everything.

"So, how long is this gonna take?"

Link chewed on something that looked like a sandwich with strangely green filling. He slightly titled his head, then shrugged.

"We're not staying here, right?"

Link bit his sandwich with a finality that said (eating habits could actually say anything?): _You're welcome to leave anytime._

Ghirahim groaned and spit out a pit, earning a glare. "I can't sleep here, it's filthy!"

His protests were in vain. Obviously Link wasn't going anywhere, and Ghirahim had no idea where they were. Nor was he prepared for camping – apparently, Link was. Ghirahim's pride refused to take notice of that.

"I know you don't want to hear about the movies, so how about we play the game your way? I keep silent and you guess." Ghirahim didn't wait for a nod and stood up, then sat down close to Link. The author regarded him with a silent warning, but aside from pressing his hands over his ears or running out into the rain, there wasn't much he could to. Other than punching, and Ghirahim didn't worry about that.

"Keep in mind that there is this one moment of rare tension before the lady is forced into total seclusion."

The drumming of rain on the roof was fainter now. Ghirahim exhaled quietly before leaning over and pressing his lips to Link's.

Perhaps this was what it felt like to be hit by lightning when you were made of metal; electricity seemed to flow through his body, igniting his nerve endings and showering him with a cool shiver. Link's lips were coarse and compact, his breath slid across Ghirahim's cheek as the air seemed to flee from his lungs. He smelled of sweat and stream and wet earth and he was _excruciatingly wonderful to kiss…_

There it was again, the disturbing feeling of want, the surge of passion. Ghirahim pulled away, his pulse racing and his blood humming in his ears. He forced a flamboyant smile for Link's face, which was flushed and blank with shock. Taunting him would have been so much easier if Ghirahim's knees hadn't been as squishy as pudding.

"Well… I'm over at my half of the shed, then."

_Not sleeping, because I kissed a fucking rainbow._


	6. Day five: Escape

Escape

_Thank you again for all your wonderful support! I can't believe we're at Day Five already. I guess we're entering the 'hot phase', and hell, it's fun. Rainbows for everybody, for making this such a lovely experience!_

/

_If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain_

_If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain…_

(Rupert Holmes, 'Escape')

/

It had not been a comfortable night for Ghirahim – not the most uncomfortable of his whole night, since those didn't involve sleeping at all. But on the list of unpleasantries, it was a solid _What the hell._

The rain had stopped sometime in the night, however, Ghirahim hadn't been to tempted to run out into the wet, muddy darkness on his own.

He was more tempted to do different, stupid things that didn't require him to leave this shed.

Link had used a narrow insulating mat to sleep on, and he currently turned his back to Ghirahim and instead faced the wall. His breathing was deep and even, so if he was awake, he was a very convincing actor. It was slightly irksome how he could sleep so peacefully after experiencing this evening that had left Ghirahim, tired as he was, lying awake for quite a while. Perhaps the demonstration hadn't been memorable enough.

_And now you're just looking for an excuse to do it again._

It was not like anything was wrong with that – though Ghirahim was much more used to everything playing by his rules, and those never involved shady sheds, storms and guys who really did not talk.

He'd not actually been lying down, but sitting while he slept. His body was tense and still ached from the hard surface (a rhinestone-encrusted bag had proven to be insufficiently soft as a pillow-replacement), and it was hard to believe he had even rested for a minute. Exhaustion could do surprising things to domesticated people.

Ghirahim was glad he'd brought the insect repellent along, although Link had given an indignant sneeze when it was sprayed (that had been rather cute actually). And he had some basics, like sunscreen and the body lotion that stupid horse was after, but that was nowhere near his normal supply – there was not even a shower to begin with, and after a whole day of sweat and wildlife, this could not go without notice.

Ghirahim carefully stood up, wincing when his joints creaked in protest and dull pain lurked through his back. The air was cool and moist, in a different way from yesterday, and the sky was baby blue again. Ghirahim didn't let himself be fooled – it'd be hot again after yesterday's downpour. Supposedly, it was better than a constant drizzle.

Ghirahim brushed back his hair and straightened his crumpled clothes the best he could before running his tongue over his lips and slamming his palms together: loud enough for Link to jerk awake and into a sitting position. If he thought that was alarming, he had never witnessed Ghirahim slapping someone in the face.

"A sickly sweet sunrise for you, sugar-shine – in case you ever take up speaking again, try repeating that at approximately eight thirty in the morning. Aside from short-term therapy, move it."

Link blinked up at him in a drowsy way that made him seem younger and somehow no less attractive (so he had no right possessing it!) and ran his hand through his tousled hair. His hairdo was easier to look at when he wore it like that… Well, a bit. The out-of-bed-chic should only apply to people who had actually slept in such an article of furniture.

Ghirahim cocked his head in a parody of patience. He was hungry, he felt grimy and he was _not _ working in that condition. There were limits to how far he went for his profession, and they ended when he was bedraggled (Ha-ha.) like this.

"You know, moving. Out of this forest and somewhere civilized, that'd be terrific."

Link blinked again, staring at him as if Ghirahim had suddenly started talking in another language. Then he did something unexpected.

He dropped onto his mat again and closed his eyes.

It was Ghirahim's turn to blink (quite an exciting way of Morse-communication this morning). He had gotten used to Link ignoring him – sooner or later, Ghirahim had always teased something out of him. Disobeying him this clearly was… new.

Ghirahim considered taking a photo, but decided to save that trump-card for later, when the scenery revealed more about the author himself. There was no way he would let this slide, though. He was the Demon Lord, and Link had yet to acknowledge that title's full extent.

It took his muscles some effort to move smoothly, but it was a mere question of control. Ghirahim straddled the blond in a fluid motion, putting only so much of his weight on Link's hips to let him feel the closeness of his body instead of crushing him. It strained his legs, and his traitorous pulse sped up, but Ghirahim didn't let that on; his eyes sparkled mischievously when Link's snapped open.

"Never turn your back on the enemy, hon… Could be fatal."

He nestled his thighs up against Link's sides and leant down until the ends of his hair lightly tickled the man's cheek. He could feel Link drawing a fitful breath, his eyes wide with dumbstruck shock. The last bit of sleep was gradually fading, and his Adam's apple shifted when he swallowed mechanically.

"Lucky for you, we're not enemies – I'd call it companions in misfortune."

Ghirahim ran his hand through Link's hair, feeling the surprising wiriness of those seemingly soft strands. His tongue flicked against the corners of his mouth, and blue eyes followed the motion. Ghirahim faintly noticed that his voice had naturally dropped into a low murmur.

He actually wanted to kiss him again, unprovoked, just to experience that sudden rush again because Link was defenseless, vulnerable even…

"So let's make sure that our relationship doesn't get too wayward…"

Tension flickered when Ghirahim leant even lower. He dragged one hand lazily across Link's chest, feeling his breath hitch, and ever so slowly rolled his hips. Fresh heat sparked in his limbs before the sun had even reached him, then he touched Link's cheek and – gave it a small pat.

The spell was broken instantly. Ghirahim chuckled and got up before winking at Link.

"Glad you agree. I'll be outside then, taking a provisional shower. You're welcome to join me, watch me, stand on your head or whatever you do when you're trying hard to not think about sex."

Link gasped at the suggestion, struggling to his feet. It was nice to see that his blood-pressure seemed to be low in the morning, that made him seem less annoyingly commendable.

Though that didn't mean Ghirahim didn't take advantage of that.

"Oh, and before you ask, chatterbox, I play for both teams, and in case I damn well feel like _scoring a goal_-"

Ghirahim dodged the shoe that flew past him, grinning widely when Link promptly picked up the second one. That guy definitely lacked violence – and that made him all the more fun to tease. Not that it calmed his racing heartbeat or the persistent disappointment in the back of his mind. Sure, so they hadn't kissed… That week was fucking short, actually.

"Don't throw those away, I won't carry you if you don't find them anymore!"

Ghirahim waved amusedly and then ducked.

/

Bathing in streams was definitely hyped for nothing. And where people in movies always got those scenic waterfalls, Ghirahim didn't know – this stream was absolutely flat, and, what was even meaner, damn _cold_. Flowing water didn't seem to care much about temperature and made Ghirahim jump back when he first set foot into it.

He put his hands on his hips and frowned. Aside from his shoes, he hadn't taken anything off, and he was still torn between keeping his clothes on and letting them be washed along with his body, and taking them off to make sure that nothing disgusting got caught in the fabric. He should have brought a spare set of clothes… Along with a tranquilizer gun for that author with ants in his pants.

Ghirahim absolutely hated that figure of speech as long as he was out in this wilderness.

He took a step forward, cold water instantly gurgled around his ankle. The streambed was pebbly and uneven, and Ghirahim had to spread his arms to keep his balance as he awkwardly stumbled forward.

Good grief, if he'd see someone wobble around in water, he would sneak up behind that guy and push hard. Luckily, people as cruel as him were rare these days…

There was something coolish that fell upon him; it might have been a shadow. Ghirahim noticed only briefly how the back of his neck seemed to escape the persistent warmth.

The next thing was the feeling of two hands pressing firmly against his shoulder blades and shoving him. For-ward.

Ghirahim's reaction was fast enough to brace his upper body from crashing into the stream bed, but water splashed everywhere, soaking him and making him blink against the spray. His elbows scraped painfully over the stones.

No point getting pissy now. He'd suppressed that once, he could do it twice. He was familiar with being sent to the ground by that idiot, and all he had to do was…

"YOU MOTHERFUCKING DIME NOVELIST, YOU'LL REGRET THAT!"

That was all part of the… plan.

Ghirahim rolled over and leapt up, drenching the rest of his clothes and sadly not Link, because said coward had wisely backed off. If Ghirahim had been watching him closely, he could have seen the tingling brightness in those usually harsh eyes, a glimmer of waking life.

However, Ghirahim wasn't in the mood to be attentive, and perhaps that was all the better.

He lunged at Link before the blond could turn tail and run (or whatever he would have done) and flung him towards the river. The movement cost him his momentum of speed, so Link caught himself before he could trip over the pebbly ground. When Ghirahim followed up to give him a final and satisfying push, Link pulled his arm, wrapping his own arms fleetingly around Ghirahim's waist to yank him around – a funny mixture of wrestling and tango.

Ghirahim felt that he was losing balance, seconds away from crashing painfully backwards into the stream. Instinctively, he changed his strategy and buried the fingers of his free hand in Link's knotty blond hair, dragging him along.

It ended with a huge splash and at least a mouthful of swallowed water. Shallow water couldn't be trusted.

"Uuh…"

It was the second time in two days that Ghirahim made this noise. This time, it was due to the fact that he'd almost choked on this dirty water and his arm was buried under Link's body.

He was breathing quickly and had to squint hard to get a clear vision. Water dabbled along his ear, creating a weak pull that failed to wash him away. The diamond on his earlobe floated slowly like a small, blue fish.

Link stared at him with an expression that resembled bewilderment, though Ghirahim wasn't sure it was that. For long seconds, both of them lay on their side in the stream, hair and clothes soaking wet. Ghirahim had hated Link's careless haircut from the moment he saw it, but seeing the strands turn into a shade of dark forest honey, flowing in the current…

"Get off my arm already, you village idiot. What are you, five? Your mother should have taught you that only cowards sneak up from behind!" Ghirahim had always been good at hypocrisy (it was a given in his line of work), yet somehow, his lips twitched, unable to keep a straight face. His voice was the next one to follow, secretly trembling with laughter. It would have been a weakness at any place except for this streambed.

Link grunted quietly and pushed himself up to free the arm trapped under his body – obviously missing the glint in Ghirahim's eyes when the journalist pounced on him the moment he could feel his limb again. They rolled a few feet downstream, trying to restrain the other. Ghirahim soon lost count of the small bruises, adrenaline drowned the flimsy pain.

Suddenly, he was pressed into a small basin, a wave brushed over his face and for a split second, water covered him.

Then Link let go of him and gave the front of his polo shirt a none-too-gentle tug to resurface him.

Ghirahim gasped for air and shook himself like a wet dog – and grinned slyly.

"That's a tie, right?"

Link raised an eyebrow (damn him, that was a skill that Ghirahim had never mastered!), seemingly prepared to push him back into the stream, and Ghirahim snorted dismissively. "Talk about suppression of the media."

The mention of the public seemed to sober Link, who had sat back in the water with a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, and Ghirahim inwardly cursed when the noncommittal stiffness returned. It was still half a game of luck to coax the author out of his shell, and he was still clearly refusing to talk.

"I bet I swallowed a fish or something… And at least half the stream", Ghirahim continued, gauging how far he could go. Link hadn't shown a negative reaction to tender approaches (or what Ghirahim described as such since 'tender' was not in his repertoire), he seemed to fall into a state of shock like a deer in headlights. And then he pretended that nothing had happened.

It was bound to provoke Ghirahim, but he couldn't give in. Instead, he began examining his knees and elbows while the water merrily purled around them. His wet hair stuck to his skin, though he had tried combing it into the usual order.

"Let me guess, you're one of the guys who watches Wrestling on TV and ignores the warning _Do not try this at home_, and the only reason you didn't do a chokeslam on me was that you missed your body suit."

A tiny smile flickered over Link's face before he shrugged, not bothering to take stock of his own bruises, though he watched Ghirahim with mild interest, like you would look at a butterfly fluttering past. He seemed to have relaxed somewhat again, and although Ghirahim was tempted to push his luck, he figured it was better to fool around some more. Even if his thought were aching to go into another direction.

_You're here to work, and you've wasted plenty of time already. Would it be too much to ask to take your mind off sex? That's quitting-time-activity!_

Yes, so he'd considered this from day one, but that was before he knew how stubborn Link could be. Ghirahim sighed regretfully, earning a curious glance, and stood up. Rivers of water gushed from his drenched clothes, and he smirked at Link with evident self-satisfaction.

"Need a hand, dar-Link? Of course, you might stay here as well – I'll just get those dry real quick."

Ghirahim held out his hand, and it was pointedly ignored. With a broadening smirk, he peeled up the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

/

Friction? Well, who knew it existed.

Ghirahim was still grinning to himself as he carefully applied first his body lotion and then sunscreen to his skin while his clothes lay drying on the stony shore.

No, not _all_ of his clothes.

Not that he would have minded taking them off (if he was getting an irregular tan because of that underwear-barricade, that pony would suffer!), but it would doubtlessly make Link uncomfortable – he lived for that, however, he was quite sure that as soon as Link felt that something was expected of him, he'd bolt.

Perhaps that was why he had quit writing? It was certainly possible. As far as Ghirahim knew, his fiancée had always supported him, and since he wasn't close to anyone else (beside those pesky animals, and they were useless at a press conference), he was missing the encouragement.

But he had the whole wide world cheering for him; it didn't make much sense to Ghirahim. Even if Link was extremely picky in his taste in people, it was hard to believe that nobody could get to him – widowers weren't such a rare occurrence, and the internet was mostly anonymous. Some kind of… self-help group would do the job.

No, that was not the key. Ghirahim ran his tongue along the corners of his mouth and slid the dental chewing gum he was using as a substitute for a toothbrush (only temporarily, because he preferred the real thing) into his other cheek. Maybe it was just a writer's block, or he lost his nerve in the face of the high expectations for his final book. Ugh, sissy.

"Are you sneaking up on me again, love? You know I adore surprises."

His ears had picked up the soft crunching of pebbles, though Ghirahim hadn't been sure where it had come from. When he turned his head, Link mustered a defiant look and proceeded to leave again. He was holding something plastic-packaged – Ghirahim hastily waved at him.

"Grow a sense of humor already, I won't force you to rub this stuff on my back – though I don't mind if you do."

Link still looked dubious, so Ghirahim shot him a honeyed holier-than-thou-smile. "Don't get ahead of yourself, now. I can do it myself, just so you know, I'm _fabulously springy_."

Link rewarded him with a dry _I bet you are_-look, but he seemed to feel more comfortable now and sat down in a regardful distance. Unsurprisingly, he had kept his wet clothes on and left a small trail of water drops.

"So… I take it you're a late riser?" It was actually one thing that made the guy look human. Ghirahim caught him nodding briefly while Link was rustling with the plastic package, then the author suddenly looked up and titled his head. He breathed in, and Ghirahim had the weirdest of déjà-vus.

"You're not, by any chance…" He fought a chuckle and flicked back his hair. "If you could bring yourself to keep less than a fucking mile distance, we can pursue the mystery of gooseberry scent. There."

He held out his hand (for the second time today, and it kind of reminded him on a cheesy knight's tale), and Link considered it for a moment before actually scooting closer and sitting beside him. A faint blush crept over his cheeks when he shyly sniffed the skin.

Like master like man. Though Ghirahim absolutely wouldn't have minded Link licking his fingers.

Link still avoided looking at him directly, probably due to the lack of clothes. The kid seriously didn't know what he was missing… However, Ghirahim needed his facial expressions to at least guess what Link was thinking. And besides – undressing was all the more fun when somebody else did it for you anyway.

Ghirahim slipped on his slightly crumpled clothes and sat down again. He wasn't sure whether he imagined Link sniffing very quietly. "Where are we? I want to go back to the hotel. Shower. Change clothes. Eat something." He spit out his chewing gum and folded his arms before staring expectantly at Link.

The blond locked eyes with him for a moment. Then he offered him a piece of chocolate-coated instant-waffle. Ghirahim cringed: not only were there unholy chemicals in those waffles, the chocolate was all melted! He tried politely to keep a straight face. "Uh… No, thanks. It's unhealthy."

Link's glare was telling. _It's not going to kill you._ He obviously didn't have the faintest idea.

"Do you even know what kind of toxic waste they stuff into that pastry to keep it juicy? And that fat is hell on the skin!" Ghirahim shook his head in disgust and looked away.

Link was not impressed. He ate the rest of the waffle with unrelenting pleasure and licked smears of chocolate off his fingers. Well… Chocolate _was _tasty, there was no denying. It was simply off the list, for Ghirahim kept iron discipline with his eating habits. He mercilessly smothered the little voice of temptation and went to fetch his bag. He was getting hungry.

Link still seemed to be in a snit, so Ghirahim set to smooth his ruffled feathers – he took out a plastic juice box and poked the straw into it. "Wanna try? It's not a love potion, I don't need that. It's good for you."

Link appeared skeptical, but he took the juice box and sipped the red liquid.

Ghirahim had been wrong about something: Link was well-bred. Because he was fighting hard to not spit the liquid out. His lips quivered slightly and he grimaced before forcing himself to swallow.

Ghirahim snickered and took a gulp of the potion. "I never said it was delicious, well, they had this nasty affair some years ago about the recipe that allegedly used fluids of several bugs… They have reformulated it, of course."

Link looked horrified – it amused Ghirahim to no end, actually.

"It's nutritious, you see, and a nice substitute for coffee. Tastes better if you lace it with rum, a bit like Pina Colada. If you can follow my thoughts."

Link jumped up and stomped back to the shed, leaving Ghirahim grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Some of us have a reputation to maintain", he murmured and swallowed the rest of the drink without batting an eye over it.

To his surprise, Link didn't stay away to sulk. He carried his knapsack, which he had seemingly packed up again, and produced a small, faded pot. Ghirahim raised his eyebrows questioningly and scrunched the juice box up. "We're not catching bugs now, right?"

Link screwed the pot open and dabbed his fingertips into the waxen, mostly colorless content. It smelled vaguely like herbs and… shortening. Ghirahim watched curiously when Link reached out and rubbed his fingertips gently against his elbow.

"I might be allergic to that", Ghirahim put in, though it sounded like whining even in his own ears. The salve stung a bit on the tender skin of his scratched elbow, but Link avoided touching the not yet fully formed bruises with a somnambulistic sureness, his fingers seemed to tingle on the skin, the coarseness of his calluses added to the effect. Ghirahim cleared his throat when Link let go of his arm again to rub the salve onto his own bruises. It had to be some kind of horse liniment, but for once, Ghirahim took no notice of the pun. The simple sensuality made his blood pool.

While Link vetted his tiny injuries, he just watched him, ignoring his scraped knees and his other elbow. If Link felt uncomfortable, he didn't let on; he finished the treatment and looked up to fathom why Ghirahim hadn't mimicked his actions.

Clearing the throat didn't seem to have done much good, it was still rough when Ghirahim opened his mouth.

"Will you kiss it better?"

Once again, Link did not resist when Ghirahim leant forward to press his lips against his.

It was intoxicating in every sense of the word. A frisson ran down his spine, cooling and warming his skin at the same time. Despite himself, Ghirahim reached out and slid his fingers through moist fair hair, mussing it gently. His lips shifted, opening a fraction to let the tip of his tongue pass through and playfully nudge the closed mouth.

He didn't feel Link's breath across his cheek – because the author was holding it. His body was stiff with tension, his blue eyes wide open, but they were slowly drifting shut as Ghirahim caressed his scalp. He whimpered softly, then exhaled, his breath tickled skin. He tasted a bit like chocolate and bitter remains of potion and a hint of spice nut, a taste that Ghirahim had almost forgotten for years.

He flung his arms around Link, pressing him close, kissing him with sudden ferocity until both of them were panting. At some point, Ghirahim hadn't even realized that his ten fingers were entangled in Link's hair, his blood pounded in his ears. Their lips were still brushing within an inch, warm air gushed back and forth between them like a whispered secret.

Ghirahim still felt lightheaded when he slowly released Link, his heart drummed like the collective loudspeakers of a disco.

He forced himself to stay still when Link lifted his hand to his own lips and touched them carefully, his expression as cryptic as ever. Then he looked up again, his tongue quickly swept over the slightly pink skin as if tasting the flavor of peppermint Ghirahim had left there.

Link breathed in again and offered the salve again, smiling allusively.

/

The hiking continued along the stream. There was no way of telling whether Link had actually taken account of Ghirahim's wish to return to the village, and the path he took remained a mystery. For once, Ghirahim was fine with trotting along.

"You're still opposed to do a writing-interview, then?", he drawled after a while – judging by the position of the sun, it was afternoon when they took a break to wait for the worst of the heat to pass. Without the shadow of trees, it was exhausting to march on, and Ghirahim was fine with cooling his feet in the stream. The water was deeper here, and the current weaker.

Link yawned and languorously watched his lower legs dangle in the stream. For someone who insisted on scurrying through the whole damn forest, he could be quite lazy.

"I can to make advances to you", Ghirahim added and earned a sudden blush that made him chuckle. "_Advances_ in communication done from the vertical position." The blush deepened at that.

"You sure have a dirty mind for someone who writes virginal books."

Link glared at that.

"You're cute when you're trying to be derogatory. The thing is, we can do the guessing-stuff all day long, and I can even stick to the topics you want – and if it's about the cleaning of your roof rail. As long as I do the writing, I can cope with it, and it will be fabulous."

Ghirahim stole a peep. Link seemed to be pondering on his offer.

"All I need is some proof that you approve of it. A photo, some puppy-eyed lines, that should do."

Link splashed some water on him (and on Ghirahim as well, though he didn't mind that much right now, as the wetness made clothes cling), then firmly shook his head.

Ghirahim rolled his eyes. "What now, I practically babied you!"

Link gestured by spreading his arms and pointing his fingers at him.

"Yes, so it might cause some stir, and you'll get a few guests, but you've got your pitchfork. 'Sides, just tell them to fuck off."

Link raised one eyebrow. Ghirahim huffed. "You'd better not compare those to me. Damn it, you pansy, I built you a rainbow bridge! And you know something?" He waved dismissively. "I lied about that actor."

He shouldn't have said it. Why had he done it?

Link didn't react as expected; he didn't even seem surprised. He just reached backwards where both of them had placed their bags and took out Ghirahim's camera. Then he threw it into the stream.

Ghirahim instantly leapt up to save it, though he already suspected what soon became nasty truth: the gadget was done.

"You knew it," he hissed with the dripping camera still in his hands.

Link allowed himself the slow smile of the cat that drowned the canary. Ghirahim yanked him into the stream once again.

/

When Ghirahim got to his hotel room that evening, unsatisfied desire still burned beneath his weariness, despite of that feeling, he felt strangely good.

Too good to notice the folded newspaper waiting ominously for him on the nightstand – that would take until the next morning.


	7. Day six: Violator

Violator

_A/N: Guys, guys, guys! … Look at this? If you wanna relive Day Three again, have a look at the wonderful fanart by MrMyshka: .com/albums/d124/karlarei2003/gurrrl .png_

_Also: we are drawing close to the end. Not. The plan for a sequel came up while writing, and it piled up quite a lot of ideas. I can't be precise yet; it's just that both writing and getting in touch with your reactions and reviews was too much fun to simply end the adventure – and I hate endings in general._

_Sorry, Ghirahim, no peace for you, not by a long shot. No pun intended._

/

_Why do I keep dreaming_

_You're here to save me?_

_Violator, violate me…_

(Son Of Rust, 'Violator')

/

"So, have you decided yet?"

Ghirahim had been brooding over his notepad, and the sudden interjection interrupted his thoughts. He spared Kina an unfriendly look; he was currently writing down the first multiple-choice-interview of his life (ticking off boxes was fairly easy even for Link), and that needed his full concentration. It would probably serve to annoy Link, but if that made him take the pencil himself and to a proper interview, it was all the better.

"I thought my breakfast habits weren't up for discussion any longer."

Kina frowned politely. "You haven't spoken about it since you came here."

"About _what_?" Ghirahim was rapidly losing patience. Why was this girl underemployed enough to stand here and chat with him? If he had to put up with her cockblocked boyfriend again, he'd be late – and he already was, because he had overslept for a bit. It usually didn't happen to him, Link was obviously rubbing off. Kind of. At least, he had most of the porch to himself now, before the thought of 'rubbing' could take root.

"You know what." Kina looked around as if she expected the few other guests to eavesdrop on them. "Nobody has said anything."

_Then why does this feel like I've dropped a brick and missed your head, girl?_

Ghirahim rubbed his eyes, careful to not smear his makeup, and forced a smile. "Regrettably, I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about." And he hated that.

Kina eyed him with confusion, then she tucked her tray under her arm. "Just a moment."

_I can't wait. Secretiveness, you gotta love it._

Kina was back quite fast, holding a newspaper in her hand. Ghirahim would have recognized the company logo and the blue letters at the front page anywhere – probably everyone in Hyrule knew what the front page of Skyward Serenade looked like. A short look at the top of the page told him that this was an outdated issue, several days old in fact. Almost a week.

"Well, you… said it yourself, so we were sure that was reason you're here…" Kina's words were making less sense by the second. Ghirahim gave up on being nice for now.

"What the hell are you driveling about?"

Kina opened the newspaper and leafed through, turning some pages. Three pages, to be exact. Ghirahim lifted his eyebrows. That was where his column was, so why did he need to see that? And why was there in this relatively new issue-

"You see? You wanted a change of scenery to pick back up, and when you turned up here…" Kina seemed to be starting to feel uneasy, she folded the newspaper and help the lavender-tinted page out to Ghirahim, nervously tugging at one of her brown locks. "You said that you were interested in, well, country-flair."

"Why would I?", Ghirahim snapped and glared at the so familiar design. He spotted a photo of himself, taken in Hyrule City. Though he was smiling absent-mindedly into the camera, Ghirahim didn't remember allowing to have the picture taken, and as long as he was working on this story, _Simply Fab _would of course be taking a break.

How could this newspaper be younger than a week? Ghirahim felt a cold, heavy chunk of lead slowly sinking in his stomach as his brain grasped for an explanation. He snatched the paper from Kina's hands, and for a strange moment, their eyes locked, both of them sharing confusion and uncertainty.

The letters blurred, words seemed to sense his upcoming panic and run into smears of ink. They had not been written by him – Ghirahim recognized the style, the elaborate phrasing, the photo that looked like he was fully aware of someone holding the camera.

But it hadn't been him. It was someone expertly copying his working methods. Just for which purpose?

Kina sounded questioning when she said: "You wrote it. You're dropping out of business. For an undetermined amount of ti-"

Ghirahim slammed the newspaper onto the table, crumpling the colorful paper and making Kina flinch in shock. The few guests on the porch looked over at them, Ghirahim felt their attention like spotlights blinding him. His cheeks turned hot and then cold again, gears in his brain began to turn, creaking, as if sand had been poured over them.

Ghirahim brushed his hair from his face and released the paper, rubbing his hand against the white halterneck top he wore as if to clean it. Then he got up, taking a slow breath when the exoskeleton of experience booted up.

"I suppose I have forgotten to celebrate", he said silkily, though his eyes held a benumbed expression. "Do you sell liquor here?"

/

"_This is by no means a rash decision – I just didn't feel the need to tell anyone before. In case you are expecting a coverage of my newly found peace, you can absolutely forget that idea. There is a fabulousness that I don't wish to share and in case yearning takes over-glamorized version of road tripping, you might call it-don't hang your heads yet though, in case you foolishly think that's an appropriate attitude-not fab!-lovely concept will be continued-feel free to shed whatever juices over the new concept of something increasingly peachy-less hairy, I hope…-could crank that-luckily--"_

The letters melted and refused to steady again. Ghirahim found that everything inside of him struggled against focusing his eyes on the page and reading properly. His hands were icy and sweaty, ink began to stick to the tips of his fingers. He was vaguely aware that he was breathing fast, vicious little twitches pricked his sides, his back, his face.

His hands were holding the utter ruin of his life.

The simplicity of this was crushing. And Ghirahim had never been someone who tried to shut out reality.

He had been a complete and utter fool, naïve and struck with overestimation of his own capabilities, and it had been brilliantly turned against him. By someone who knew those weaknesses. Ghirahim hadn't been able to summon any surprise when he discovered that Lycos would be the colleague that would kindly take over the column.

_Simply Fab _was very successful, it had taken Ghirahim almost a full year and all of his wit and inner and outer strength to draw enough attention and stir the sedate minds of modern people. Readers had gotten used to him, they loved the constant. They would accept someone else rather than giving it up – especially when that someone knew well how to impersonate the Demon Lord. There would be a new Demon Lord, it had already happened without Ghirahim suspecting a thing.

He was no Link, there would be no three years of hopeful waiting. The week of silence was the sign that everything was settled, the iron had gone cold, he could strike it with all his might and it would still only be his tombstone. Ghirahim was a feature, but that had never meant that he was unique.

They had known he wouldn't get into touch, that he would never return early and admit his defeat. That defeat had been planned all along – Ghirahim began to realize that even if he fantastically managed the full interview that had brought him here, his place at Skyward Serenade was lost. He could sell the story to a rivaling newspaper, a stale little victory that only taunted his defeat even more.

Ghirahim dropped the newspaper from numb fingers into the leg room of his rental car he was sitting in. It felt like something boomed out of his chest, clogged his throat and fused his joints. The yellow coupé stood in the middle of a dirt track, forgotten in the frenzy of getting away – it was somewhere on the way Ghirahim had always taken this week, a side road in Neverland.

Something choking crawled up his throat; he really should have gone with drinking first, though some silly instinct of sanity had insisted that he could only get trashed after he didn't need to get behind a steering wheel anymore, and not before.

Ghirahim inhaled deeply and did what he had sworn he would never do again: he bent forward and put his head between his knees, pressing them against the sides of his skull and wrapping his arms around his legs.

He remained like that for a long time – hours, maybe. The in-cabin room of the car warmed up, sun filtered through the glass and made the air thick and sultry. Ghirahim stayed motionless, his breathing was controlled again, there was no doubt he was awake.

When Ghirahim sat up, it happened ever so slowly, like the movement of a much older man, stiff and careful. Some of the strands he always meticulously combed and sprayed against the right side of his head had freed themselves and slid across his cheek. It was the only detail that had escaped Ghirahim's accurate styling, his eyes were calm and dispassionate when he reached over and unscrewed the cap of the glass bottle on the passenger seat. The sharp aroma of alcohol rose, mixed with the sweet-sour smell of oranges. Ghirahim looked around for a substitute for a glass, found none and huffed lightly before lifting the bottle and touching the neck against his lips.

Yes, the celebration indeed called for a drink.

/

The world had begun to fray, but the bottomless anger at everything and everyone had gradually dulled until it didn't feel sharp anymore, just mushy and slightly angular. He should have declared that _simply fab_ long ago, really. Ghirahim felt more relaxed as soon as the urge to howl out his explosive cocktail of feelings (until the activated airbag blew up in his face) retreated. He had gotten out of the car and now sat on the hood, the heels of his boots occasionally kicked the front bumper and created a _dang-dang_-sound that broke the idyllic chirping of birds. Ghirahim sank back against the windshield and blinked lazily up as the trees seemed to spin around him.

He felt strangely relieved, detached from everything that had represented him. This feeling would turn ugly sometime, but right now it was enjoyable.

Something else began to interrupt the thumping sound on metal. It took Ghirahim a few seconds to realize that it was the stamping of hooves, just as rhythmic as the clang of his heel.

"You sure are a bloodhound", he murmured, his voice slurring and soft at the same time. Epona's massive body appeared between the trees, though she didn't approach right then – as if she sensed that something was different. Ghirahim idly wondered how much time had passed since he had left the _Lumpy Pumpkin_ and a confused Kina.

Epona lowered her head to nibble on some weed, giving a grunt of protest when she was gently pushed aside.

Ghirahim stopped his dangling leg for a moment to look over; and then he burst into laughter, slamming his flat hands onto his thighs.

"Oh, that's priceless for sure! Searching for me, Prince Charming?"

The look of confusion on Link's face would have made Ghirahim laugh even if he hadn't been drunk; it was impossible to tell whether that expression came from the fact that the search had ended at such a randomly chosen place, or it hadn't occurred to Link that Ghirahim would get the wrong impression.

The author was dressed in plain shorts and a faded green t-shirt. He hadn't moved from Epona's side, maybe out of insecurity.

"Always wearing green… Pisses me off, y'know. Not like you're some fucking forest elf." Ghirahim slumped back against the windshield and sighed reconfirming. He felt hot – not the constant heat from outside he had endured the past few days, but an erratic fever in his bloodstream that was partly alcohol and partly… what? He couldn't put a finger on it, and the thought disappeared again.

Link walked closer, watchful as if he was approaching a wild animal that was dragging a leg, either out of pain or shock. Ghirahim narrowed his eyes, suddenly feeling cornered. He abruptly slid off the hood, leaning most of his weight still onto the car because the ground suddenly seemed to sway under his feet. It angered him, who always kept such a flawless control over his body, and he tensed when Link took another step.

"Don't you _dare_ to…!"

Touch him?

He had fantasized about this, even before he had seen Link. And now he refused it? It was an irony that made Ghirahim chuckle low in his throat, anger fading away for now. "So, were you going to touch me?"

Link studied him with an unreadable expression. His eyes never left Ghirahim's face, it was the same mien he had worn after Ghirahim had kissed him. He was intrigued by something that he seemed to fail to figure out as much as Ghirahim failed to figure out him.

He was close now, close enough to touch, but he didn't do it. Perhaps he needed time to break his deadlock. However, Ghirahim was tired of _waiting_.

"Coward."

He pushed himself up, glad that his balance was somewhat intact, though humiliation had recently lost all meaning anyway. He was more open to the disappointment he felt when he grinned mockingly at Link.

"You're the kind of fucking… loser that always waits for people to do the work, so you wash your hands of… responsity or something." Ghirahim laughed abrasively. "Bet you're deadweight in bed." God, he needed to stop talking, and stop philosophizing about other people's sex life as well. He could do both. He focused his eyes on the trail leading ahead and ran his hand through his hair when another surge of heat rose. It made him dizzy for a moment, but he kept walking, ignoring the soft smacking of soggy earth beneath his feet. He had been right when he first came here, everything was dirty and disordered and seriously needed cutting…

Link did not stop him. He moved more graceful than Ghirahim, effortlessly catching up. It would have been a moment where words substituted for actions because they kept a comfortable distance, sound was so easily ignored.

Ghirahim jerked to a stop, almost stumbling. That was a nice thought, actually – he should voice it before it disappeared again.

"You know, you could get rid of me, right now. All you need to do… is say it. Anything, and the genie is back in the bottle."

Ghirahim ran his tongue along the corners of his mouth; he wasn't sure himself whether he was lying, and there was no reason he needed to care about that right now. Anticipation sent tingles along his spine and his breath picked up speed. His fingers burned with the craving for touch, but he clenched his fists. Intoxication had numbed him, and still he yearned for something else – something that made him feel better instead of feeling nothing.

Link stared at him. He seemed to consider, though it was hard to tell by his blank face. Something was going on behind his maze-like eyes, but his lips remained closed – and that was all that Ghirahim needed to see. He sneered with cruel amusement.

"Vir-"

Link roughly grabbed the front of his white shirt, making the material bite the skin of Ghirahim's scruff and kissed him.

As measured by Ghirahim's experience, it was probably a wretched kiss. Link pressed his lips against his so hard that they got squeezed against the teeth, the numbness bordered on pain. There was no gentleness, and Link's rigorous kiss only eased slightly when his mouth moved, brushing over Ghirahim's and perhaps forming a word or a caress, it was impossible to tell. They were standing close, and Ghirahim failed to find his body, his breath…

It hurt – it was perfect.

The heat inside of him surged up, he involuntarily gasped. His teeth scraped Link's bottom lip, caught it and drew it to him. Ghirahim felt Link shiver and raised a hand to grab his wrist, though he made no move to rip it away from his clothing. His lips pulsed with dull warmth.

_Want. I fucking want it._

Their mouths pressed mercilessly against each other, the sharp taste of alcohol made Link hiss – or it was Ghirahim's hand clawing his hair that evoked the sound. Breaths were drawn in frantic thrusts when they separated, and in a sudden frenzy, Ghirahim ground his hips against Link's. Both of them moaned at the friction; through the haze, Link's voice was strange and deep, a soft rumble that made Ghirahim's world slide out of focus.

It was wonderful – he wanted more of that contourless feeling that unfurled so much heat, and when he heard a hoarse laugh, it was him. He rocked his hips again and enjoyed the hardness he felt touching against his. There was no mistaking the arousal was mutual, which excited Ghirahim even more. He went more pliant, wrapping his arms around Link's neck. The tip of his tongue glided across the other's lips and discovered the small gap; warm, moist air gusted against the sensible skin and made him shiver violently.

Lust clouded his senses when Link tentatively ran his hand along his chest, his fingers felt for the joint of the ribcage, the smooth flatness seemed wondrous to him. Ghirahim had always been proud of his slender physique, but having someone explore his body like something _exotic_ was new to him.

Link was slow, and in a corner of his mind, Ghirahim was aware that rushing him could snap him out of his daze. The author was delightfully unhurried but oh so hesitant…

Ghirahim's hand trailed down Link's slightly rough pants and cupped his crotch. Link tensed up and gave a low groan, his hand on Ghirahim's chest clenched and his closely cropped nails scratched the skin – it made the journalist sigh throatily.

Link's choice of clothing hardly accentuated his build, however, the shifting of his muscles was arousing. Ghirahim could feel his cock responding to the touch, straining the robust material. The question how much somebody was packing under the belt was just another part of his job, so it never made him feel giggly before, but right now…

The thought of work, no matter how brief it was, awoke the painful twitches again. His head began to spin, and his knees threatened to give away. He instinctively held onto Link's shoulders to stay upright and then leaned into him, shutting his eyes from the sunflecks and all the world.

Link's breath tickled Ghirahim's ear. His hands carefully moved to his sides, then he sank down onto his knees, dragging the weight of another body along. Along with the drumming of his heart and the still pounding fever in his blood, Ghirahim could feel lush grass and squashy soil, an earthy scent rose.

Ghirahim dug his nails into the nape of Link's neck. The spinning had stopped, and still the heat kept forming in his lap and enfolded his voice. He wanted nothing more than to rip up his clothes and grind against Link until he lost the rest of his mind, but-

"Don't you _dare _to put me in the delicate wash cycle now."

Articulating seemed difficult right now – one reason why Ghirahim didn't like getting drunk was that his mood swings were even more of a loose cannon than usual. Link squirmed and looked at him with a mixture of disorientation and lust. His cheeks and the tips of his ears had reddened, and his lips were moist and puffy. He was a sight to behold, and at the same time, his gingerliness had angered the part of Ghirahim that hated being cared for. Even if it was just some mechanical care.

Link planted his hands firmly on his chest and pushed him away, his eyes darting around like a fairy in a bottle that someone had recently given a hearty shaking.

_Should've gone slow on some kid whose status quo is still a dead _female _under a canvas cover._

Perhaps this short moment had given Link the opportunity to see into Ghirahim's jaded inner self, making him balk. But such insight could never be one-sided and opened up a view that felt familiar to Ghirahim's hazy mind.

Link stood up and wiped his hand across his cheek, as if the blush could simply be rubbed off. His chest was rising and falling hastily, and he was nowhere near unaffected by the touch. Ghirahim simply looked up at him, his tongue ran along the corners of his mouth again and tasted a strange, remotely sweet note that reminded him of gooseberries.

He couldn't think at all. His hands rose and reached out, his fingers trembling with longing. A dull ache filled his body and pulsed in the beat of his hammering heart. Kina's odd words suddenly made sense. The whole book made sense, somehow.

… _the hero realizes that he lets himself be exploited without knowing who he is…_

"Don't leave me."

It didn't matter whether Link recognized the line. The shrinking in his eyes lessened, and he got to his knees with a dizzying grace. His face was unreadable once more when he yanked Ghirahim to him for a bruising kiss, their bodies writhing against each other. Ghirahim pushed them over, not caring when dark earth clung to his skin as he fumbled with inflexible clothing. He moaned unabashedly when Link pulled him on top and their erections clashed, drawing both pleasure and pain in their intensity. Ghirahim hissed and screwed his eyes shut, then pressed against the contact.

There was no sense, nor harmony. Undressing turned out to be too complicated and arrestive, and in some way, Ghirahim sensed that being naked would make both of them feel vulnerable.

He grinned as he tugged Link's old-fashioned breeches open and wrapped his hand around the heated flesh. The author moaned breathlessly, almost greedily rolling his hips; he was clumsy and stunning, his rough caresses and frenetic kisses left Ghirahim, who had never thought of himself as easily excitable, helpless with lustful obliquity. He gasped for air when they writhed again, turning over and finally settling in the grass, face to face.

Link made an amazed sound in the back of his throat when Ghirahim's teeth scraped along his pulse point, arousal and the thrill of instinctive fear blended. His fingers ran through the dusty white hair and mussed it before he shyly felt for the slim curve of the buttocks and grabbed it the next moment when Ghirahim's hand teased his arousal. Link seemed to be at a loss for a second before Ghirahim felt him smiling allusively. Another searing kiss made him groan, the bare skin of their cocks rubbed with an electrifying timing. More tension built up as their movements grew frantic, gasps and moans filled the warm air.

Everything was blurring once more. Ghirahim felt like he couldn't catch his breath, his panting carried a hoarse note, and he was slowly slipping. This was not sex, mot like he was used to it, and still it made him melt while he rocked against another body, Link's hot breath ghosted across his neck as he imitated what Ghirahim had done before. His coarse hand was a bit sticky and trembled with brimming lust.

In the blink of an eye, the world suddenly turned white, and everything began to whirl around. Ghirahim felt the strain escape, his own voice was raw and husky when he cried out, never missing the deep-drawn sigh Link made and violently shuttered. Sweat glistened lazily, and just getting enough air was more than enough to do.

Ghirahim would have loved to enjoy the afterglow that he had missed for so long, but his body was somehow not cooperating. His consciousness began to fade, and he didn't have the power to fight it – he was even too content to mind that.

Wiry strands of hair sent a few tingles down his spine, Ghirahim caught the feeling.

"Drat."

It was not his voice. And he almost regretted not making digs at the fact that someone didn't know how to swear before he finally disappeared.

/

_A/N: I enjoyed the chapter, which probably makes me a horrible person. Sorry. But drunk Ghirahim was fabulous in his own way._


	8. Day seven: My Body is a Cage

My Body is a Cage

_A/N: I was glad that Ghirahim running riot didn't seem too OoC to you – as always, your reviews send me into a frenzy of rainbows! This chapter is the last but one before the sequel takes action. Thank you all for staying with me so long and giving your feedback!_

/

_I'm living in an age_

_That calls darkness light_

_Though my language is dead_

_Still the shapes fill my head_

(Peter Gabriel, 'My Body is a Cage')

/

There really should be an enhancement of hate so you could express your feelings for mornings. And it should be an incredibly obscene word. And a short one so you didn't need much breath for it.

"Uuh…"

It was a start.

Ghirahim very slowly opened his eyes, the lids felt heavy and encrusted with sand. He lifted one hand and tentatively wiped them. His fingertips and nails felt rough and prickly against his sensitive skin, and he instantly rejected the soft light. His head showered him with unhurried waves of pain.

_Yes, alcohol is the bane of mankind. I knew there was a reason it was never fabulous._

His fingers touched purple. Damn, he didn't want to know what sleeping with makeup on had done to his skin and eyelashes. Ghirahim carefully began his physical inventory, resting his hand over his eyes so the light was blocked. His mouth was dry and tasted vapid, but his throat was fine, so even though his stomach felt queasy, he hadn't thrown up – so he couldn't have lost all his dignity. Good. He'd dealt with enough photos of people covered in their gastric contents.

Something stirred at that thought. Ghirahim ignored it and dragged his hand from his eyes, then blinked. He could see more clearly now, and the wooden ceiling he looked up to was not familiar. Nor were the delicate green curtains or the carved headboard. Come to think of it, this whole bed was foreign to him, and there were potted plants hanging from the ceiling…

"I wouldn't have expected hell to be so sappy… I guess the horror isn't nameless for nothing."

His voice was raspy and hoarse (and not the positive kind), but at least it was no longer slurred. Ghirahim cleared his throat and deliberately sat up. His hair was a mess (which was normal) and sleeping in his clothes had been uncomfortable. Ghirahim had made a habit out of sleeping naked, regardless of the season.

It was kind of ironic if you were alarmed because you woke up clothed. Nevermind, because the next unpleasant surprise was the fact that he was in a double bed. Double bed, like, matrimonial bed. Oh God, that was enough to make his stomach do a nasty flip.

Ghirahim caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and sighed deeply when he found them undecorated. Though dark earth stuck under his fingernails, and he couldn't remember where he had gotten that.

"Whatever I told you, we are _not_ married, and please tell me we didn't have unprotected sex." He thought that over for a moment and then added: "We _did_ have sex, right?"

Uh-oh. What did that old author-guy once say about the liaison of alcohol and sex? 'It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.' He hadn't… failed in the middle, had he? It made his headache boom, and Ghirahim lost all desire to face the world and fathom those mysteries. He dropped back into the fluffy pillows with a groan and shut his eyes again. There, that was much better. He could wait and hope that his blackout never disappeared.

Something warm and rough brushed his cheek and left a wet trail on his skin. Ghirahim shuddered and rolled over, cracking open an eyelid to meet the gaze of horrible strabismus.

Cat. That blasted cat. Ghirahim buried his face in a pillow that smelled of soap and decided that this morning could not get worse.

Chamomile soap. Ugh, yes, it could get worse.

"Goddammit, smell like a man, man!" _Says the guy who wears gooseberry scent._

Ghirahim wasn't particularly fond of himself today. He flung the pillow off his face, it bounced against the window and tumbled onto the carpeted floor, missing the cat and the other unmoving object in the room.

Link stared at him with his bland expression, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wore jeans and a black v-neck-shirt with the almost completely faded emblem of a singer-songwriter who had been out of fashion for years now. It was strange to see him in such casual, _ordinary _clothes. Black suited him. And yet, it was odd. Link, who represented a man in deep grief, hadn't shown himself in that special garb.

Ghirahim's heart sped up. "You spoke."

Link did not react, not even when the cat jumped into his lap and kneaded his thighs.

"Don't give me that, I heard you." Ghirahim sat up straight and blew his hair from his face, headache momentarily forgotten. "You cuss like some domesticated housewife, but I heard you."

Link paid no attention to him. He stroked his cat, his blue eyes vacant and thoughtful. Ghirahim noticed the slight redness on his lower lip and the little scratch on the side of his throat. Marks that the author hadn't bothered to hide, and Ghirahim tried to remember what had happened. His mind was a blur, and he failed to put the pictures in place. He cleared his throat again and tugged his hair behind his ear.

"We did not have sex, right?"

Link ignored the question, but Ghirahim spotted the soft blush of his ears under the blond hair. He managed the first grin for the morning. "Right. Thankfully. Because I don't get _topped_, wrap your brain around that. If there's ever…" Something tender? He thought he saw Link tense, but it was impossible to read him. Did he regret seizing the opportunity? Had his own needs unsettled him? Was he simply worried that his hook-up would be in the media? Or, as off-key as that sounded, was he objecting to the politics of sex?

"If we ever do it, it's me", Ghirahim finally concluded and rubbed his eyes again. It seemed like Link had completely withdrawn into his shell again, which frustrated him. And at the same time, he felt like he didn't need to care. If only his concentration wasn't so rotten, he could put his finger on that.

"So… This is your bedroom."

Ghirahim looked around with mild interest. He absolutely didn't feel like getting up already, so he examined the colorful quilts, the sloped windows across from the bed. They were slanted towards the north so that the sun didn't heat up the room too much. Bookshelves lined the walls, and opulently blooming light blue clematis hung above a large desk made of cherrywood. Though the desk was stocked well enough to write a whole epic, it didn't appear like someone currently used it. Ghirahim was not close enough to decipher what the books filling the shelves were about, but judging by the design, they didn't look too… funky. Also, two fishing rods were standing in an old-fashioned barrel, and a wooden staircase led to the first floor.

All in all, it looked like a cozy vacation home, maybe even a love den for a honeymoon if you liked it rustic. There was no sign of anyone else living here, but it was obviously meant to. Ghirahim involuntarily cast a glance at the untouched place next to him.

And there was hair sticking to his clothes. And earth. Ghirahim grimaced and pushed back the quilt to take survey of his appearance. Looked like fluff from something with brown fur, and the earth had dried long ago. Ghirahim immediately longed for a shower, but he paused to mull over his blackout again. If he had indeed gotten these marks somewhere outside, why had Link dragged him back here, allowed him in this very personal space, to give him the cold shoulder again.

Perhaps hermit-authors were insane after all, and he'd soon enough end up shredded to pieces in that green lake. The problem with those horror scenarios was that Ghirahim never believed them. True horror was something else, like-

"If you're sulking because I babbled something, I have the best of excuses." Well, maybe getting drunk didn't count as such, but if he was the only one talking, it was only fair if he made the rules. Ghirahim stretched slowly and eyed Link warily. "I didn't declare my everlasting love and devotion, right?"

Link's mouth twitched ever so slightly – it was too brief to classify the small sign, so Ghirahim only took it for a No. All was not lost, then. It was all he needed to know for now, his voice was starting to tire. He would have killed for a cup of tea, and considering that the only living beings in this room were a dramaqueen and a fuzzy, squinting cat, he would take the tea and kill nonetheless.

"You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you with something hard and sand-papery."

Ghirahim swung his legs over the edge of the bed with more enthusiasm than he actually felt. His head still ached terribly, but at least his stomach had calmed a bit. The first thing he had to do was to scrub his fingers, God knew what was under his nails. Dirt and hair and… ink?

From one second to the other, the fog in his memory brutally cleared. His career was over and done with because of the pettiest of intrigues.

It didn't sting as bad this time. Ghirahim didn't feel like the realization would crush him anymore; suddenly, the most painful feeling was his lostness. Where would he go from now on? He had been the Demon Lord – every other place in Hyrule seemed unfit to him. He honestly had no idea. He would never be content with holing up somewhere on the countryside and returning to a normal job.

He barely noticed how he hadn't gotten up at last and instead had dropped back into the messy quilts. He stared for long seconds without noticing how his fingers ran along the tiny bruise at his throat. The tension had softened enough to push the turmoil aside for now; it felt hollow, but not unbearable. It would work. Ghirahim sat up once more and turned his head. Link hadn't moved an inch, he watched his guest with a stony expression that reminded Ghirahim heavily on their first day. Only that one important detail had changed since then.

"Since you're obviously not going to tell me where I left the car, I'll get going. Feel free to dismiss this as the oldest trick in the book, but I won't continue this interview." And it wasn't like he had any material. His camera was broken, there was not a single piece of written dialogue, and to be honest, there were wide parts of this man that Ghirahim still couldn't figure out. He wished the strange attraction had died down by now, so that his lips wouldn't tingle teasingly now, however, time was patient. His memories were smoothing, reminding him on clumsy, enticing kisses and hushed sounds of wonder, stings of pain, lust.

Link gave no indication he believed it – or even heard it. If he wasn't in deep thought, he had fallen asleep on his chair or something. Ghirahim rolled his eyes and stood up, glad that his legs carried him. The knees of his jeans were stained with dust, he probably looked like he had tried mud wrestling…

"I am trying to remember your name."

_And there goes my newfound peace._

The voice was quiet and raspy, like you would expect it from a tool more or less not used for years. The gentle instrument of an artist with a timbre like claves. It was a revelation. And at the same time, it was just annoying as hell in this very moment.

"When I told you to mind the H, I _did not _mean you could forget about the rest!", Ghirahim spat, feeling as if the whole moment of revelation had been robbed of its magic. But that was life; the dramaturgy was lousy, and when you needed the strings and the field of daisies, nobody had them down pat.

Link watched him with laconic patience. He seemed to have listened to his own voice intensely as he spoke, and something with his intonation seemed off, like he concentrated hard while he formed the words.

Ghirahim sighed and glared at the author. Technically, hundreds of journalists and reporters had likely left their names here, yet that did not exculpate Link from actually forgetting someone like the Demon Lord. And that title was his and would always be.

"It's Ghirahim. No surname, and if you want a greeting hug or something, move your ass over here and put away that cat. And not in that order."

Link scowled at him, and of course remained seated. He didn't appear like he wanted to talk more, maybe he had changed his mind after all. Or he needed time to collect himself, it was like he needed time for everything…

"Fine. Where's your bathroom?" Ghirahim cocked his head expectantly. Link met his eyes for a short moment, then got up so suddenly that the cat rather fell than leapt from his lap. Without giving any further signal, Link descended the stairs, his shoulders stiff and cool once again. He hadn't beckoned Ghirahim to follow (though he had to take the stairs if he wasn't planning to jump out of the window), as if his presence was erased.

Ghirahim flicked his hair and stretched carefully. Yes, he was free to go, and honestly, he wanted to catch some more sleep and nurse his hangover. But the thing he didn't want was prying company, and one way or another, there was a reason why Link had asked his name. Rash decisions didn't seem typical for him, especially when he had taken the effort to bring Ghirahim here.

Yes, the only remaining question was whether Ghirahim wanted to take part in this and continue the job. He absent-mindedly stared at the cover of the book on the nightstand, _An Updated List Of Fish And Amphibians In Danger Of Extinction In Faron And Phirone_, then turned around and set his bare foot onto the softly creaking staircase.

/

Showering had improved Ghirahim's condition and even his mood, at least his thoughts were moving more fluently now. He was relieved to discover that Link a) had a bathroom instead of a pit latrine outside and b) had running water, even hot water if you wanted. The warmth soothed the irritated skin and cleared away the mixture of dirt, sweat and dried semen. The memory of their tryst was blurry, and while hard water cascaded from his body, Ghirahim pictured the glimpse he had caught of Link. A different shade of the man, an inexperienced, apt lover with vivid sensuality. Too bad this side was gone again.

Link didn't seem to see a use in elaborate care products – he didn't even have moisturizer, which served as the final proof that this household was stuck in the last century, if not in the Mesolithic. Ghirahim reconstructed his styling the best he could without hairspray or makeup and gave his reflection a swift check-up. He still looked like someone who had painted the town red and then fell into the paint bucket, but as long as he could make it seem like that was his purest intention, it was fine.

He had washed the stains of earth and grass out as much as he could, the delicate material of his clothing hadn't taken the scrubbing well. It was his least concern right now.

And someone ought to tell Link that chamomile was an odious scent! No wonder his girlfriend had preferred a quick death over that stench. And yes, Ghirahim's humor was incredibly black.

Aside from the bedroom under the roof and the bathroom, the farmhouse only had a wide living room and a u-shaped kitchen. Everything was sturdy built, clean and well-kept, not obtrusively expensive and obviously furnished without the help of an expert. Someone had simply dragged in the furniture he liked and arranged it so it wasn't in the way. Ghirahim was no interior designer, but this was clearly the work of a man. A complaisant man, and a man nonetheless.

Link shot him a very impolite look of surprise when Ghirahim discovered him in the kitchen. The expression was directed at the absence of makeup, which was more than a bit insulting.

"Yes, that gray is my natural skin color, in case you meant to ask that. How the hell did you survive three years without boring yourself to death with those books? They're fucking _sick_!"

Link turned back to the herd, apparently disgruntled by Ghirahim's loose habits of swearing. The journalist let him be and idly looked around. The walls were bare; both here and in the bedroom. No framed photos of landscape, cute animals and exceptionally not of the deceased fiancée. Well, Ghirahim wouldn't want the dead to loom from his walls, either.

"If you want me to ask the right questions, you gotta give me a hint, you know."

Link kept his back turned to him, but he lifted one hand and pointed at the spacious living room. The aroma of chocolate began to drift through the air, an oddly soothing scent even for Ghirahim's still nervous stomach.

"Charming host you are", he mumbled and decided against arguing with Link – there was no use trying his own patience now. Ghirahim sunk into the broad armchair, one of the motley seats that grouped around a massive dining table, and closed his eyes. He felt worn, not only from the aftereffects of the exertions and the hangover, but kind of… sapless. He had always wanted to be someone of importance, perhaps a craving for recognition and power. It was not like he had never suffered a setback, and now he discovered that falling so deep was less painful and instead rather tiring…

The sound of a mug made from grog made him open his eyes a fraction. "Bribe?" Ghirahim sighed. "I told you I don't eat chocolate. It's no exception if it's hot chocolate, hon."

Link regarded him with very well-concealed smugness. "Hot chocolate… and marshmallows."

Ghirahim's eyes snapped fully open, and he had the unpleasant feeling that a treacherous blush crept up his cheeks before he could force it back. "That's just my password!"

Link didn't hide that he didn't believe that for a second. Good thing he never talked. Ghirahim fiercely glared at him. Skeletons in his cellar were his and his alone. … And so what if he liked hot chocolate with marshmallows. He should be glad he hadn't revealed anything more explosive in his sleep. Just _why_ had Link heard that?

Link didn't try to pursue the lie, whether he wanted to avoid unnecessary communication or basically wasn't interested. He took his own mug of hot chocolate (there were actually adult guys who had chocolate for breakfast?) and sipped it gingerly, not minding that the viscous drink would warm him up.

Ghirahim slumped back into the cushion of the armchair. "You want to talk to me." It was not a question. "I don't know about what, and frankly, I couldn't care less." He cast a warning glance at the cat that approached his foot. "If you're doing this out of pity or some misguided favor, you can have a piece of my mind – and the astonishing experience that both my backhand and my kick in your privates will make you wish you had kept your puss firmly closed. Oh, and I can do both at a time." Ghirahim smiled sweetly. "Terms of service have changed, you see."

Link raised his eyebrows at him.

"And if you have a question, _say _it. I might guess what's going on in your uptight brain, but that doesn't mean I want to."

Link paid no attention to his brusque tone. Ghirahim wouldn't have admitted to actually feel uneasy under the unrelenting stare. No doubt Link was listening, however, his mind was working, just like Ghirahim had analyzed his gestures before. And the result seemed acceptable.

"You are angry."

"That's no question!", Ghirahim snapped and shifted in his seat so he could swing his legs over one arm of his chair. "If your head isn't fucked up after all, why the hell don't you write? I offered you that before." He ignored the fact that a successful interview would have been worthless. And Link seemed to sense that the priorities had changed.

The author pressed his lips together; once more, it seemed like he was concentrating before opening his mouth.

"It is… hard."

Ghirahim snorted rudely. "Hard, my ass! As if you…" He stopped and examined Link closer, his sneer faded again. "What do you mean, it's hard?"

The unused desk, the short words on the notepad, the slight distress that had made Link cut himself with his peeler. Ghirahim narrowed his eyes as the truth began to dawn on him.

"You have dyslexia."

Link's nod was so curt, like his muscles had tensed up everywhere.

He had written a message before – very short and spidery, and a message he had had all day to compose. Aside from that, Ghirahim couldn't remember ever witnessing Link write in the past week. He had refused to do it, the notepad had even seemed strange to him. Because it was indeed difficult for him.

"Well, that's… something." Ghirahim sat up a bit straighter. "Not the end of the world, though. After all, you fabricated those books."

Link looked at him. It was more apparent now that he was centering himself, there was a small crease between his fair brows. He reminded Ghirahim on someone from a fantasy movie who was trying to fight a spell of silence. And it indeed seemed like Link didn't want to… talk.

"It's not everything." Not a question, either. Ghirahim felt the tension encroaching on him.

"I… need Zelda."

The short jolt of jealousy at those few, tightly spoken words startled Ghirahim; he had never felt any desire for people to _need _him. Likely, it was only the undertone of yearning that appealed him. He took his mug to have a distraction for his hands while he waited for Link to continue.

"I was not… good with words." The way the author spoke a bit quicker hinted that whoever had raised him had equalized the dyslexia with mental retardation. "Storytelling was a practice. Zelda could…"

The note of pain was thick; Link's eyes were dry, his hands calm and steady, but it laced his voice, snuck across his face. Link waited for a few seconds before he could take his chopped style of narration again.

"Zelda helped me with the exercise. I constructed the story for her. She could… make me overcome the barricade."

Ghirahim hummed quietly and ran his fingers along the side of the mug. If he had understood this correctly, Link didn't have one, but two blockings, and the second one was much more difficult to undo. "So in other words, there is no third book and there won't be one." Because Link couldn't trust anyone as much as Zelda, so his story remained locked. And he didn't seem eager to find someone who made him feel at ease.

"How far were you with your work when she was shot?"

Link flinched ever so slightly at the last word. The crease between his brows deepened as he once again forced words out of his mouth. "Not… far. I wanted to finish as soon… as possible. This… hype." He frowned. "I don't like it. Neither did she. I wanted her… to move here so she could… have peace until the books were finished."

Ghirahim turned his head with ostentation. "She didn't live here?"

"No." Link's voice was choked once again. "She was going to. Suddenly… she was hesitating. There was something on her mind." The blond closed his eyes for a moment, the first visible sign of his grief. "I was worried. Zelda could have… reconsidered the wedding. Or us. It bothered me, she was so… absent. We fought." His tone turned bleak. He drank some chocolate without paying attention to the warmth.

"She drove to the village. She was at the… post office, then at the jewelry store. There was something she wanted… to buy as a gift."

"She was going to give you jewelry 'cause you were pissed? Just out of curiosity, you weren't wearing skirts back then, were you, since _she_ obviously wore the breeches!"

Link's head snapped up, blinking bemusedly at the acidly remark that he could not file into the context. Ghirahim smirked at him, and when a stare with the temperature of liquid nitrogen hit him, he casually sipped the chocolate, suppressing a sign when the silky aroma of full-fat and spice nuts caressed his tongue. The fat probably clogged his arteries right there, but… No way he was just spitting the chocolate back.

"My offer for a scrap stands, you know", he said lightly and licked his lips. Spice nut, so that's where Link had gotten that taste. "Oh, wait – I remember where we ended up last time when things got a little violent."

Link's face had gone dark and contorted, his hands were clenching the mug so hard his knuckles turned white. Ghirahim's smirk thinned, but stayed present.

"If I had to make a guess, I'd say you'll walk away now, like the last time I was being a positive bastard – though I can assure that I can be much worse. But you won't, because there is something you want."

"What do you know." Link's voice had lost all intonation again, and yet his body had relaxed. None of them were willing to surrender; Ghirahim smiled thinly.

"I don't. That's why it's me you're talking to." He drank another mouthful of chocolate and then swung his legs from the arm of the chair, lowering his head in the parody of alacrity. "You need me for something – what in blazes is that?"

He was fairly sure he had been evaluating Link well, but it became apparent that he hadn't been the only one. For all his quietness and strange softness, Link couldn't have gotten to this point without a talent for cold calculating. He merely used it in a less reckless way.

The author didn't answer at once. He finished his chocolate and shooed the cat off the table, then he eyed Ghirahim with a distant, unsettling curiosity.

_Hold your horses, if nothing else. He doesn't know, primitive caveman that he is. _Still, Ghirahim couldn't shake off the disturbing feeling that he was being candled like an egg. Who would have thought this geek was tough enough to affront him…

"There is something. I…" Link seemed to be at a loss for words again. His movements were resolute as he got up, his mechanic blue eyes swept over Ghirahim as if he considered letting him in on the secret. Ghirahim flashed him an elliptical smile and meaningfully touched his fingers against his neck.

"What if you can't trust me?"

Link's blank seriousness eased for a brief moment. "I don't do it."

"That has to be the only smart thing you have done so far, in case you aren't taken in by the grave error that you can control me." The suggestive note was barely there, but it danced on the edge of Ghirahim's voice. "I told you, nobody can."

He would love to try it out, without the angry frenzy and yet, would that even be possible?

Link took a few steps away from the table.

"Please yourself."

"Flirting with me?"

"No."

"You should have known I'm even nastier off duty." Ghirahim raised a mocking hand. "And I never agreed on anything."

The sad smile that Link smiled was sudden, unexpected – it send a cool pang through Ghirahim that disappeared just as quick, leaving behind a slightly faster pulse. His face remained unmoved, but something inside him was spinning, fluttering, waking a primal flight-reflex; and at the same time, we stayed put, the adrenaline cleared his head.

"No need", Link said softly and opened the drawer of a low, dark commode to take out a small, unadorned revolver.


	9. Epilogue

The Closest Thing To Crazy

_This is the nearest thing to crazy I have ever known_

_I was never crazy on my own –_

_And now I know that there's a link between the two_

_Being close to craziness and being close to you…_

(Katie Melua, 'The Closest Thing To Crazy')

This had to be a joke.

Ghirahim felt his throat become dry suddenly. The moment was so surreal that he could not even feel fear, though his brain immediately recognized the threat. At first, there didn't seem to be any sense, and a part of him failed to understand how the situation had turned out so drastically.

Just what he needed, a deranged psychopath. Ghirahim briefly remembered a course he had taken years ago about what stories revealed about the author and what hidden depths seemingly innocent pieces of phrasing could conceal… But aside from his mind being much too shocked by the sight of dark hole in the barrel, it could not be real. It was illogical, Link, who avoided violence to an extent that was almost ridiculous, who pictured bloodshed as vile, an ultima ratio that actually, if you looked close enough, had nothing glorious about it. The people who had written their mostly creative biographies about Link had all agreed that his characterizations were typical for someone who had experienced violence and heavily disapproved of it.

"You're crazy."

Link beckoned him to get up, which Ghirahim obeyed (not like he wanted to be shot in a fluffy armchair, that color combination would be so not fab), and then stepped forward. The grim silence was unnerving, and Ghirahim felt sweat prickle between his shoulder blades. He moved backwards when Link motioned him to, feeling a strange tension.

A gun. He had joked about that on his first day.

"Perhaps you're not crazy, but it's probably the closest thing to it."

His bare feet touched cold ground, the tile floor of the kitchen. The sensation made him flinch, and his head seemed to grow cool as well, clearing away the hollow confusion he had felt since waking up and realize that his life was well and properly ruined.

He had never wanted to… escape, hide away, commit suicide, whatever. Although he had fallen into a state of shock, he would never consider giving up – in fact, he would never allow the fruit of his hard work to be stolen by somebody else so easily. Ghirahim didn't doubt his own determination; he simply hadn't had the presence of mind to dig it up.

It was nice how these rare moments of perfect intuition always occurred when you were up to your ears in shit.

His back came into contact with the jade-colored tiles of the kitchen wall. Yes, no doubt his blood would look gross on that surface.

Link looked at him, unaffected by the remark or the tension that Ghirahim kept so carefully hidden. His hand – the left one, Ghirahim had never noticed that feature – was calm and steady, not glistening with sweat or trembling with tautness. If he had been fumbling with the trigger, it would not have been quite as menacing. The sureness was truly frightening.

For the first time, Link's eyes shifted. Ghirahim noticed a framed picture of a small orchid next to him, he vaguely wondered about it since the walls in the living areas were all blank, so why did the kitchen need decoration…

Link made a curt gesture with his right hand. Everything in Ghirahim struggled against turning, letting the revolver out of his sight, but he wouldn't let himself be paralyzed. He'd find a way out of this, somehow – he always had, he just needed to figure out what exactly Link was planning. If he was planning anything survivable at all.

"In case this magically cures you from your writer's block, or whatever you call it, I want an honorable mention in the third book… At the very least, a dedication." Ghirahim lifted his arm and touched the plastic frame of the picture. He had his cell phone in his pocket, but even if he managed to call the police, it would take them much too long to get here, and there was nothing he could use as a shield or a weapon. The kitchen counter was behind Link, tidy except for the pot he had made the chocolate in. Great.

A small crease appeared between Link's brows again, and he bit his lower lip. His calmness seemed to be fading, which could not be a good sign. Ghirahim took the picture, which only revealed another tile, and clutched it. He could throw it, though he had to expect that Link was prepared for an attack. More than fear, Ghirahim felt anger at the comprehension, a stifled rage that he could not voice.

"If you seriously-"

Link aimed the gun in a frightening fluent motion and pulled the trigger. The shot rang like the scream of a mechanical creature.

Ghirahim pressed his hands over his ears when he heard the second crash, smithereens of green tile rained onto him, then mixed with the amber-colored shards of a vase. The sound of detonation still hummed in his ears and dulled every noise, it rang and hurt, but it was the only pain.

Both men stared at the assortment of green and orange pieces, a tile and a vase and the framed picture Ghirahim had dropped. None of them moved.

"Oh."

It was odd to hear Link's quiet voice in that overarching silence. He had lowered the revolver and regarded the mess on his kitchen floor quizzically.

"Ricochet", Ghirahim heard his own voice, it sounded strangely distant through the jingling in his ears. He felt unsteady on his feet, the closeness of the shot had temporarily disturbed his equilibration.

It never stopped him from striding towards Link to lift his hand and slap him.

Ghirahim hadn't been rambling about his ability to turn that mostly harmless move into a both painful and humiliating experience. When his palm grazed Link's cheek, the force was enough to knock his head to the side, and the snapping of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen like a second shot. Ghirahim knew that it hurt, the burning on his own palm was satisfying; however, it was not nearly enough to cool his rage. He still had something up his sleeve, after all.

Link only clasped the gun, his arm hung limply by his side while his other hand automatically came up to cup the white imprint on his quickly reddening cheek. The revolver in his hand seemed to be forgotten, or he judged it useless for his defense. Even if there had only been one bullet, he could use the tool itself. But he didn't. He just cradled his cheek, staring at Ghirahim with naked blue eyes.

It would have taken someone with much more brutality to attack him again. And while Ghirahim didn't view himself as especially soft and indulgent, it was… Just why the hell should he do that, as if his self-esteem was so low he needed to boost it like that.

"Next time you do that, your balls will make the acquaintance of your tonsils – from the south direction." Ghirahim made a meaningful gesture and ripped the gun from Link's hand; he felt a short resistance, then the other man let go. The grip was warm and smooth, and Ghirahim preferred not to ponder where Link had gotten it. It was surprisingly heavy, and Ghirahim wasn't tempted to hold it, though it gave his almost shaking fingers something to cling to. His weapon was his wit and occasionally a smashing slap. And the swiveling of his hips.

For the first time, Ghirahim took notice of the place where the now broken tile had been. His nerves were still vibrating from the shock, so his brain felt numb. He should have been surprised to see a small, iron safe embedded between the tiles, but the feeling didn't arise. Although the lock had been hidden under the tile, the bullet had blasted the iron open. The accuracy didn't exactly placate Ghirahim – the ricochet could well have hit him instead of the vase.

"Why?"

He stepped over the shards, even if it probably didn't help his bare feet much.

"Threw away the key." Link sounded somewhat dazed. He didn't try to cool his cheek to prevent a swelling, although the skin was in an angry shade of red now. Ghirahim shot him a glance, then dug his nails into the tiny gap between door and wall to force the safe open.

It was small, and it didn't contain much, no cash or, what was even more disappointing, no unfinished manuscript. God knew what that would be worth.

Link drew in his breath as if Ghirahim had opened a horrible tomb. He grew pale underneath the mark of the slap, visibly fighting the urge to slam the safe shut.

Ghirahim casually dropped the revolver (good thing those needed to be cocked, because it would have been distinctly unfab to shoot yourself that way) and pulled the few contents out.

A pink, girly handbag surfaced, along with some colorful hair ribbons and a toothbrush tumbler. So there were people who still used that stuff… It was not hard to guess that these things belonged to Zelda, and Link had kept them in a peculiar twilight zone between neglect and loving safekeeping.

Despite the tension still lingering in his muscles, Ghirahim's professional curiosity awoke. He put the beaker and the ribbons aside after briefly examining them and took the bag. There were some dark stains on the cheerfully pink accessory – blood, without a doubt, though someone had tried to scrub it off.

"She had this when she was at that store?" It was rather obvious, and Link nodded tersely. He watched Ghirahim with an unreadable expression, but hardly moved. It was impossible to say whether he wanted to tear the belongings of his fiancée from these alien hands, or if he was glad that Ghirahim spared him the contact with painful memories. Perhaps it was both.

Ghirahim sashayed towards the living room again, small cuts burned at the soles of his feet, yet he did not pay them attention. He emptied the contents of the bag onto the table with as much respect as he could (or whatever you tagged as such) and began to inspect.

Zelda didn't seem to be as queer as her boyfriend (and yes, that adjective had been chosen with care) – in fact, she was rather normal. She carried basic makeup, a brush, a bunch of cute key chains, a hand mirror, old cash vouchers and hundred other tiny things that Ghirahim was all too familiar with. Like a good fiancée, she had a photo of Link and her in her purse and some old rings. Considering that she had been at a jewelry store, it was self-evident what for if she wanted to soothe her jealous lover. Ghirahim politely ignored Link swallowing dryly.

"You suspect something, but you don't tell me about it. Fine." The Demon Lord flipped his hair. "Have you ever looked at this stuff?"

Link shook his head. "A feeling", he rasped.

"Oh, fuck me."

Ghirahim overlooked the alienated mien of the author (he hadn't invented that phrase, so what?) and began to dig around in the handbag. Paper crackled beneath his fingers as he triumphantly pulled out a folded note. "Now, _that _is something. See these lines? This was the content of an envelope. I thought she was supposed to be in a hurry?"

He unfolded the paper. Because Zelda had disposed of the envelope, there was no postmark, but whoever had sent it had thankfully made a letterhead.

"One day before she… died." Link eyed the paper warily. Ghirahim couldn't tell what was going on with him – frankly, he was too excited to think. With regard to Link's dyslexia, he read the short content out loud.

"_Dear Zelda, it has become urgent. I have prepared and sent you the necessary material, await it within the day after this letter. I will take the risk of giving the address already because time is short. Get into contact asap. 'Loftwing Avenue 3920-6 B'. It will be Fi._"

There was no signature, the printed letters gave away nothing. Ghirahim frowned, but Link met his look of bewilderment, equally stunned. Unless he was a terrific actor, he didn't have the faintest idea what this was about.

"Did you get any material?"

Link shook his head again. "Not out here. I… have no claim on her belongings since we were… not married."

"Who does?"

"Her father."

Ghirahim whistled quietly and ran his tongue along the corners of his mouth. "What's Fi?"

Again, Link seemed helpless, he simply crossed his legs to rest his slightly cut foot. Ghirahim tried it with abbreviations. "Financial Institution? Feminist Initiative? Functional Integration? It could even be a name, short for Fiona or Fiadora. If she cheated on you with a girl, I'll laugh at you till I croak it."

Link didn't seem to find that particularly funny. He stared at the letter as if it had turned into a poisonous snake. He had been hiding away for three long years, and it seemed like the temptation to burn this note and continue his peaceful solitude was strong. The explanation of a _feeling _was rather vague, but Link probably hadn't wanted to explain his foreboding.

Ghirahim wasn't too good at being tactful or consolatory – and it would have been a strange thing to do for someone you knew only for a week, let alone for… anyone. Ghirahim would never coddle anyone, his persona had no space for protective and tender instincts. And all that mattered was his success. The wheels already began to turn, developing a plan while he scrolled through his cell phone.

_Oh, that must be all too convenient for you._

He ignored the pesky voice in the back of his mind.

"Where?"

Link ran his hands through his hair, looking alluringly like a womanizer in spite of his visible distress. Ghirahim smirked. So Tarzan had guts after all.

"Looked it up. That's an address in Hyrule City – really not the best neighborhood, by the way."

If possible, Link's face grew even more reluctant.

"Hyrule City."

"That's what I said, darling. Don't expect me to train speaking with you." Ghirahim drew an elegant circle with his finger on the paper of the letter, then tipped on it. "The ugly truth is that all the spoors of your girl's mysterious activities might have gone cold long ago, since you insisted on sulking. Even a PI would likely just turn you down. And you don't even manage to talk to people, less than ever _how_."

He was rubbing salt into the wound now. Ghirahim bestowed a bright smile upon Link and leaned towards him. "You wouldn't guess what the media have in store, though, especially about a raid on a store in a godforsaken backwater whose gains usually wouldn't even cover the gas expenses of the journey." He silently blessed his assistant for including that in his notes. Link didn't react too obviously, but he was attentive. He first looked at the note, then at Ghirahim, his eyes cool and strained.

"Why?"

There would have been many ways to interpret that question. No one was more surprised than Ghirahim himself when his lips twisted into a humorless smile.

"Someone royally fucked my life. Someone who will regret that deeply. I won't tell you more."

Link didn't question his motive, and maybe he hadn't wanted to hear it. His hand sank from his hair to his cheek, gently rubbing the tender skin while his expression remained barred. His gaze was lost somewhere until it, oddly enough, turned to Ghirahim and fixed on his face. The silence stretched for minutes, an unnatural quietness that seemed comfortable.

Until Ghirahim abruptly kicked Link's resting foot with his own. The author gave a low hiss of pain, and Ghirahim grinned at him.

"Told ya I'd make us blood brothers, didn't I?"

And fuck, that hurt – he should have been more careful with those shards. Link stared at him with a glint of twisted amusement and gingerly reached under the table to touch the sole. His fingertips were smeared with blood; possibly only his own, but that wasn't what counted.

_Oh yes, it's perfectly convenient if you get to keep him. As if there was another cogent reason for a millstone around the neck._

Ghirahim frowned at the nasty voice speaking up once more. He had always disposed of anything and anyone that threatened to become a nuisance to him. And he never teamed up, and there was the creeping suspicion that Link wouldn't do so either. In short, it was a nice idea, and completely useless in the execution. And if he had caught anything with that dumb gesture of blood-bonding, he so deserved that.

"You are crazy."

Link's bleak statement was as startling as the shot. There was no reason this shouldn't get a ricochet as well.

"Close to it."

Ghirahim grabbed Link's faintly bloody hand and examined the rusty-red color with a smirk. "Kind of a déjà-vu, don't you think?", he remarked casually and leaned forward, the little whirligig in his head spun wildly. Could be that there was still residual alcohol in his blood, or some sort of shock still lingered. However, being caught between those roller coasters might not be so bad.

"And unless you want me to repeat whatever I said back then, I suggest that you kiss me."

Link smiled the shadow of a cocky smile. But it was a smile nonetheless. His voice seemed sealed away again because he simply looked at Ghirahim with non-comitial attention, raising one eyebrow ever so slightly.

Ghirahim yanked him over the table and pressed their lips together in a bruising kiss full of promise. Their hands wrestled on the wooden surface for gratuitous dominance, an omen of some sort, then slowly entwined – for the time being. It tasted like chocolate and tension, and when Link groaned softly, fabric rustled. Zelda's paper-eyes seemed to regard them thoughtfully.

Outside, a mild drizzle began.

/

_Here we are – at the end of the first part. I thought I'd make it without a Drawn-Together-reference, but I failed in this last chapter. Oh, well._

_I'm actually proud of this because I'm usually not nearly as fluent, but Ghirahim is strangely fun to write for all his egoistic behavior and crude humor. And of course, it wouldn't have been so easy without your wonderful feedback! Thank you so much for giving AU a chance with suggestive yoga, stream-wrestling, alcohol abuse and fabulous fights for dominance._

_I'm really excited to start with the new plot – join me in the sequel '_The Closest Thing To Crazy: Forever Not Yours'_._

_And yes, the name says it all._


End file.
